OEWtn&SNELUN6 
B80KSELURS 


C*  ^anfortr 


PAY-DAY. 

THE   LIGHTED   LAMP. 

JOHN   PERCYFIELD. 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  GOOD  FORTUNE. 

EDUCATION  AND  THE   LARGER   LIFE. 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


anatomy  of  Cheerfulness 


BY 


C.  HANFOKD  HENDERSON 


BOSTON    AND   NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(£be  tf toersi&c  press  CambriDjje 


COPYRIGHT,    1903,   BY  C.   HANFORD   HENDERSON 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


Published  March,  igoj 


PS 


TO   CHARLOTTE  WITH 
MARGARET'S  PERMISSION 


340398 


CONTENTS 


I.  THE  CHATEAU  DB  BEAU-RIVAGE 1 

II.  THE  UNITED  KINGDOM •          22 

III.  MOONLIGHT 51 

IV.  ILLUSIONS 95 

V.  IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM  .        .        .       »       •       •       .114 

VI.  AN  £TUDE  OF  BERTINI'S    .        .        ,       •       ...        144 

VII.  CROSS  ROADS  . .       . 169 

VIII.  SUNSHINE      .        .        .        .        ...        .        •        203 

IX.  INDOORS    .        .        .        ...       ...        .240 

X.  MARGARET    .        .        .        .       .        .  •        •        280 

XI.  THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY 306 

XII.  AN  UNUSUAL  HONEYMOON  .        .        .        .        •        •        331 

XIII.  THE  GREAT  REPUBLIC  .       .       .        .       .       •        .349 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   CHATEAU   DE    BEAU-RIVAGE 

IT  is  with  no  little  satisfaction,  I  confess,  that  for 
the  past  four  months  I  have  been  writing  "Chateau 
de  Beau-Rivage  "  at  the  top  of  my  letters  to  Charlotte. 
Charlotte,  you  must  know,  is  my  younger  sister,  to 
whom  I  write  about  everything  that  happens  to  me. 
She  is  altogether  the  most  charming  little  sister  that 
ever  a  man  had,  a  very  proper  and  sedate  young  lady 
when  occasion  demands  ;  but  at  heart  a  jolly  youngster, 
a  camarade  of  the  first  order.  I  suppose  that 's  what 
Frederic  thought,  the  villain,  when  he  came  along  and 
married  her. 

The  Chateau  is  delightful.  It  is  not  that  the  es 
tablishment  is  elegant.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  a  great, 
bare  place  that  might  almost  be  considered  uncomfort 
able  by  those  who  love  upholstery.  But  it  has  a  charm 
about  it  that  you  don't  get  with  newer  buildings.  The 
charm  has  been  gathering  at  the  Chateau  for  upwards 
of  four  hundred  years.  Things  that  do  improve  with 
age  seem  to  improve  prodigiously.  I  wonder  how  it 
was  with  Methuselah.  If  he  got  better  and  better 

1 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


each  year,  he  must  have  been  uncommonly  civil  before 
the  end  came.  But  it  is  n't  that  way  with  my  aunt 
Percyfield.  Perhaps  she  has  n't  started  yet. 

I  often  feel  grateful  to  the  old  duke  of  Savoy  who 
took  it  upon  himself  to  build  the  Chateau,  and  selected 
this  particular  spot  for  the  building  of  it.  I  can 
fancy  that  in  his  day  the  immediate  neighborhood  was 
something  quite  different  from  what  it  is  now.  Where 
I  see  fields  and  vineyards,  rambling  granges  and  stiff 
new  villas,  the  old  duke  probably  saw  an  almost  un 
interrupted  forest.  I  would  give  him  all  the  villas 
and  welcome.  In  place  of  the  hard,  macadamized 
road,  where  the  Chatelaine  and  I  go  spinning  along 
on  our  wheels,  there  was  probably  a  rough  forest  path, 
where  the  duke's  horse  had  to  pick  careful  way  of  a 
dark  night,  and  where  he  himself  had  to  grasp  both 
sword  and  reins.  I  like  to  fancy  that  the  old  garden 
was  also  planned  by  the  duke,  and  that  the  stately 
Lombardy  poplars  which  are  now  our  special  pride 
and  delight  —  or,  perhaps,  their  ancestors  —  may  have 
been  set  out  at  his  bidding.  I  picture  them  as  shelter 
ing  a  suitable  promenade  for  the  morning  walk  of  the 
duke's  young  wife,  the  lovely  Margherita. 

But  however  different  the  immediate  surroundings 
may  have  been,  the  great  features  remain  the  same. 
There  was  the  same  turquoise-blue  lake ;  the  same 
range  of  Juras  opposite ;  the  same  bold  Voiron s  and 
Saleve ;  the  same  eternal  whiteness  of  Mont  Blanc ; 
the  same  deep  blue  sky,  and  the  same  possible  heaven 
beyond  it.  These  things  have  not  changed,  though  I 


THE   CHATEAU   DE   BEAU-RIVAGE 

dare  say  we  look  at  them  all  with  such  modern  eyes, 
such  enlightened  eyes,  that  we  gather  a  totally  dif 
ferent  impression  from  the  one  made  on  the  old  duke 
when  he  first  settled  upon  this  site  for  his  Chateau  and 
mine.  I  suppose,  in  his  pride,  he  looked  forward  to  a 
long  succession  of  little  dukes  of  Savoy,  and  did  not 
foresee  democracy  and  the  installation  of  an  American 
in  the  best  room  of  the  Chateau.  But,  dear  me,  how 
could  he  ?  America  was  then  only  a  name,  a  place  for 
young  blood  to  go  and  work  off  some  of  its  heat,  and 
about  as  interesting,  doubtless,  to  the  old  duke  as  Ma- 
tabeleland  is  to  us.  I  will  warrant  that  Charlotte 
does  not  even  know  where  the  latter  is,  if  she  has  at 
tended  lectures  at  Bryn  Mawr. 

And  the  city  was  there,  over  across  the  lake,  sedate, 
brave  Geneva,  with  its  stirring  history  present  and  to 
come  —  a  much  smaller  city,  of  course,  but  still  large 
enough  to  send  its  cheery  lights  across  the  water  of 
an  evening  to  him  as  it  does  even  yet  to  me.  And 
there  was  the  same  pure,  intoxicating  air  and  the  same 
splendid,  warm  sunshine. 

I  cannot  help  wondering  if  the  old  duke  were  as 
happy  here  as  I  am,  and  if  he  loved  the  sweet,  young 
wife  with  half  the  ardor  that  I  love  Margaret. 

I  am  glad  he  was  not  a  stern  old  Calvinist,  given 
to  reforming  Unitarians  and  Jews  by  sending  them 
straight  home  to  their  Maker.  I  prefer  to  think  of 
him  as  a  gentle  soul,  loving  God  and  the  neighbor  and 
not  too  curious  about  the  heart's  inner  beliefs. 

I  think  it  was  Ruskin  —  and  Charlotte  will  know 
3 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


better  if  I  ani  wrong  —  who  said  that  a  house  is  not 
interesting  until  it  is  five  hundred  years  old.  I  am  as 
fond  of  Ruskin  as  Charlotte  is,  but  I  do  think  that  he 
went  in  a  bit  for  exaggeration.  It  gives  one  a  curious, 
jolty  feeling  to  read  "Unto  This  Last,"  or  "Fors 
Clavigera,"  or  "  The  Eagle's  Nest,"  immediately  after 
some  writer  of  more  precise  vocabulary,  such  as  John 
Stuart  Mill.  It  catches  the  breath,  as  if  one's  mare 
had  cleared  a  wider  ditch  than  usual,  or  taken  a  five- 
rail  fence.  And  if  you  don't  know  what  this  sensation 
is,  you  have  still  something  to  live  for.  I  have  calcu 
lated  —  by  methods  which  might  not  pass  muster  at 
the  American  Association  —  that  forty  per  cent,  of 
what  Ruskin  says  is  true,  and  that  sixty  per  cent.,  to 
put  it  gently,  is  somewhat  beyond  the  mark.  And  yet 
I  must  add  that  the  forty  per  cent,  is  so  very  true,  so 
vitally  true,  that  it  has  given  me  a  greater  uplift  than 
the  unadulterated  truth  of  more  precise  writers.  I 
have  noticed  the  same  thing  in  people.  I  know  a 
woman  whose  "facts"  I  always  scrutinize  and  never 
quote,  but  who  has  told  me  more  truth  than  ever  I  got 
out  of  the  "  Public  Ledger." 

Cutting  down  Mr.  Ruskin' s  figures  at  the  rate  I 
have  hit  upon,  it  would  seem  that  a  building  two  hun 
dred  years  old  may  be  interesting,  and  that  would 
make  my  Chateau  doubly  interesting.  It  is  good  for 
as  many  more  years.  I  often  look  at  its  solid  walls 
and  towers,  and  think  that  it  will  long  outlive  many 
of  the  smart-looking  houses  that  I  have  been  more 
luxurious  in  and  much  less  satisfied  with  in  America. 


THE  CHATEAU  DE   BEAU-RIVAGE 

The  Chateau  calls  out  a  deal  of  reverence  on  my  part. 
To  have  withstood  time  and  tide  for  four  centuries,  and 
to  have  come  out  of  it  so  erect,  so  beautiful,  so  sweet 
and  integral  a  part  of  the  dear  mother  earth,  is  no 
small  accomplishment.  Charlotte  need  not  laugh  and 
twit  me  with  being  sentimental,  for  it  is  a  precious 
sight  better  than  she  and  I  will  ever  do.  And  then 
Charlotte  herself  lives  in  a  pressed-brick  front  on 
Walnut  Street.  So  I  know  well  what  her  laughter 
means.  It  means  sour  grapes. 

The  straight,  macadamized  road  that  runs  from  the 
lower  village  to  the  neighboring  estate  of  Monsieur  du 
Chene,  and  then  turns  at  right  angles  under  those 
splendid  old  beech  trees  up  to  the  grande  route  to 
Duvaine,  passes  back  of  the  Chateau  and  really  very 
near  it,  but  the  greenery  is  so  thick  that  in  summer 
time,  at  least,  you  might  go  up  and  down  the  road  a 
dozen  times  and  never  know  that  the  Chateau  was 
there.  I  like  this  nearness  and  remoteness.  It  is 
like  a  friend  whose  hand  you  may  take  any  day,  but 
the  inner  recesses  of  whose  spirit  you  may  only  dis 
cover  with  friendly  seeking.  It  is  so  with  Margaret. 

In  the  case  of  the  Chateau,  the  hand  held  out  to  the 
public  is  a  shabby  wooden  gate,  opening  directly  on 
to  the  highway.  The  path  leading  down  to  the  Chateau 
is  trim  and  weH  kept.  It  is  covered  with  little  pebbles 
about  the  size  of  a  robin's  egg,  and  if  the  soles  of 
your  shoes  are  rather  thin,  as  American  soles  are  apt 
to  be,  you  will  likely  walk  as  if  you  were  treading  on 
eggs.  We  who  live  at  the  Chateau  wear  such  heavy 

5 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


shoes  that  the  most  Cinderella-like  step  can  be  heard 
from  one  end  of  the  great  drawing-room  to  the 
other. 

The  path  winds  through  the  greenery,  and  lands 
you,  I  had  almost  said  precipitates  you,  so  sudden  is 
it,  at  one  side  of  the  courtyard.  The  courtyard  is 
also  paved  with  robin's-egg  pebbles,  and  is  inclosed 
on  three  sides  by  the  Chateau  itself,  and  on  the  fourth 
by  the  tangled  wall  of  greenery  which  separates  it 
from  the  road.  The  courtyard  is  oblong,  with  the 
wings  of  the  Chateau  forming  its  shorter  ends,  and  the 
main  building  and  the  greenery  its  longer  sides.  It 
always  seems  to  me  very  free  and  open,  but  this  must 
be  due  to  the  roof  of  blue  sky,  for,  in  reality,  the 
courtyard  is  very  much  inclosed.  Besides  a  little 
wicket  gate,  leading  off  to  some  miscellaneous  build 
ings  whose  original  usefulness  has  long  since  been 
forgotten,  there  are  but  two  openings  from  the  court 
yard,  the  one  in  the  greenery  that  admits  the  path, 
and  a  splendid  archway  that  passes  under  the  centre 
of  the  main  Chateau,  and  leads  to  the  beautiful  old 
garden  beyond,  and  to  the  still  more  beautiful  Lac 
Leman. 

It  is  a  picture  to  look  through  this  archway  of  a 
sunny  afternoon,  and  to  see  the  coat  of  many  colors, 
which  nature,  like  Joseph,  seems  always  to  be  wear 
ing.  There  are  roses  and  great  dahlias,  and  chrysan 
themums  of  every  hue.  There  are  cropped  sycamores 
guarding  the  paths  like  so  many  giant  umbrellas, 
their  leaves  all  shades  of  golden  brown  and  yellow, 

6 


THE  CHATEAU  DE  BEAU-EIVAGE 

vivid  green  and  autumnal  scarlet,  veritable  umbrellas 
of  Cashmir.  There  are  rows  and  rows  of  Lombardy 
poplars,  full  of  years,  but  still  erect  as  sentinels,  with 
their  gray-green  leaves  rustling  and  shining  in  the 
sunny  air,  their  trunks  made  emerald  by  the  luxuri 
ant  encircling  ivy.  There  is  the  quiet,  land-locked 
pool  into  whose  clear  waters  one  would  so  like  to 
plunge  in  spite  of  its  being  October.  Then  beyond, 
there  is  a  wall,  and  over  that  another  world  of  beauty, 
the  bluest  of  lakes,  as  blue  as  Charlotte's  eyes,  and 
quite  as  likely  to  have  unwary  youths  a-drowning  in  it. 
Now  it  is  a  sea  of  cobalt,  sparkling  and  glistening  in 
the  sun.  Across  the  lake  there  is  the  gay  parterre  of 
the  Swiss  coast,  the  Chateau  where  Madame  de  Stae'l, 
with  doubtful  taste,  used  to  pine  for  Paris,  and  back 
of  it  all,  the  purpling  gray  of  the  Juras,  stretching 
away  in  great  earth-curves  from  the  Dole  to  the  un 
known  east,  and  the  unknown  west.  Above,  there  is 
the  sky,  a  paler  blue  than  the  lake,  but  impenetrably 
deeper,  and  flecked  now  with  foamy  clouds. 

It  is  a  garden  full  of  resources.  One  can  never 
exhaust  it,  for  different  corners  of  it  respond  to  differ 
ent  moods,  and  so  one's  explorations  seem  never  to 
come  quite  to  an  end.  When  I  am  tired  of  the  formal 
alleys  where  my  duke  and  lady  used  to  walk,  I  have 
the  orchard,  with  its  thick  carpet  of  green  grass,  or  I 
can  cross  one  of  the  stone  bridges  over  the  pool,  and 
wander  along  the  shore  of  the  lake.  There  it  is  dif 
ferent  every  day :  sometimes  a  glassy  mirror,  full  of 
reflections  and  of  sheen ;  sometimes  a  sparkling  sea 

7 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


of  color,  with  the  sunbeams  scattered  riotously ;  some 
times  cold  and  gray,  with  the  white  caps  rolling  threat 
eningly  ;  but  always  different,  and  whether  riotous  or 
placid,  sunny  or  grave,  full  of  an  undeniable  attraction 
all  its  own.  To  live  near  anything  so  big  and  alive, 
so  rich  in  moods  and  possibilities,  as  a  lake  or  a  soli 
tary  mountain,  is  to  come  to  love  it  profoundly.  It 
is  different  with  a  range  of  mountains.  One  has  a 
neighborly  feeling  for  them,  can  even  grow  very  fond 
of  them,  but  never  quite  fall  in  love  with  them.  It 
would  be  like  falling  in  love  with  a  whole  family.  I 
feel  that  way  about  the  Juras  opposite.  I  should  miss 
them  sadly  if  some  morning  they  failed  to  emerge 
from  their  purple  mist,  and  I  knew  that  they  had  gone, 
but  I  should  not  be  entirely  desolated.  The  lake, 
however,  is  an  individual,  and  I  love  it. 

There  are  people  who  remind  me  of  mountain 
ranges,  they  are  so  big  and  so  broad  and  so  admira 
ble.  They  seem  to  sum  up  in  their  own  person  the 
qualities  of  a  whole  race.  I  always  admire  them  tre 
mendously,  and  even  think  at  a  distance  that  I  should 
like  to  imitate  them,  but  I  never  love  them.  It  is 
the  unique  people,  the  Monadnocks,  the  Grandfather 
Mountains,  the  Tacomas,  the  Mont  Blancs,  even  the 
-r^Etnas,  that  take  my  heart. 

I  always  think  of  Margaret  in  comparison  with  the 
Jungfrau,  not  the  Jungfrau  when  it  is  veiled  in  mist, 
or  even  when  its  snowy  bosom  stands  out  cold  and 
white  against  the  impenetrable  blue,  but  the  Jungfrau 
when  it  is  touched  by  the  late  afternoon  sun,  and  is 

8 


THE  CHATEAU  DE  BEAU-RIVAGE 

bathed  in  rosy  light,  —  something  warm,  palpitating, 
individual,  even  in  a  way  inaccessible,  —  for  those  we 
love  must  have  reserves  which  even  the  beloved  one 
may  hardly  penetrate. 

I  was  walking  the  other  morning  in  the  shrubbery 
that  skirts  the  lake,  when  I  caught  sight  of  a  half-hid 
den  path  which  I  had  never  noticed  before.  It  was 
only  another  of  the  surprises  with  which  this  wonder 
ful  garden  is  full.  I  followed  the  path,  brushing  aside 
the  detaining  hands  that  the  bushes  put  forth  on  ali 
sides,  and  stooping  where  the  stouter  branches  were 
too  low  for  the  high  head  that  I  am  always  obliged  to 
carry.  I  had  all  the  joy  of  the  discoverer.  My  little 
path  seemed  bent  on  mystery,  for  it  wound  in  and  out 
in  all  sorts  of  curves  and  tangents,  but  finally  it  led 
me  to  the  most  perfect  morsel  of  a  summer  house, 
half  overhanging  the  water,  and  half  buried  in  the 
greenery.  It  was  very,  very  old,  and  of  curious,  foreign 
workmanship,  quite  unlike  anything  in  the  Chateau  it 
self.  The  marble  was  stained  with  moss  and  lichen, 
and  all  its  outlines  were  so  softened  by  time  that  it 
seemed  almost  a  part  of  Nature.  The  carving  had 
grown  indistinct,  but  here  and  there  I  could  trace  the 
faint  semblance  of  quaint  flowers,  and  little  loves  were 
hovering  in  the  midst  of  them,  like  bridal  butterflies. 
What  surprised  me  most  was  that  there  was  also  a 
marble  seat  extending  along  the  front  side  of  the  sum 
mer  house,  for  any  one  who  sat  there  must  needs  turn 
his  back  on  the  one  possible  outlook.  The  workman 
ship  was  evidently  Italian,  and  this  arrangement  may 

9 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


have  been  purely  for  symmetry ;  the  Italians,  you 
know,  are  great  on  symmetry. 

I  sat  down  in  my  little  summer  house,  facing  the 
lake,  and  immensely  pleased  to  have  found  such  a 
splendid  retreat.  But  the  seat  opposite  still  puzzled 
me.  I  got  up  and  sat  down  on  it,  to  see  if  that  would 
give  me  any  idea.  You  may  call  me  fanciful,  if  you 
please  to,  but  it  solved  the  mystery.  It  was  here  the 
duke  sat,  and  Margherita  sat  opposite  to  him.  She 
looked  at  the  beautiful  view,  and  he  looked  at  her,  as 
any  lover  would.  It  was  a  pretty  compliment.  I 
liked  the  fancy,  and  often  I  came  to  the  summer  house 
and  sat  thus,  picturing  the  dear  Margaret  opposite  to 
me. 

Had  the  season  been  warmer,  I  think  I  should  have 
lived  in  the  garden,  even  slept  there,  out  under  the 
friendly  stars,  and  in  the  company  of  the  eternal 
mountains ;  but  the  summer  was  not  warm,  and  now 
the  autumn  winds  are  astir.  There  are  rainy  spells, 
and  nights  and  days  which  are  already  cold.  But  I 
am  not  in  a  fault-finding  mood,  for,  in  reality,  the 
Chateau  is  as  dear  to  me  as  is  the  old  garden. 

There  are  no  entrances  to  the  Chateau,  save  from 
the  courtyard,  but  here  you  have  your  choice  of  half  a 
dozen.  A  high  wall  in  place  of  the  greenery  on  the 
open  side  of  the  courtyard  would  have  converted  the 
Chateau  into  a  respectable  fortress.  I  rather  fancy 
that  in  its  early  years  such  a  wall  existed,  or,  indeed, 
even  a  line  of  buildings,  similar  to  what  we  now  call 
the  main  chateau,  thus  closing  in  the  courtyard  corn- 

10 


THE  CHATEAU  DE   BEAU-RIVAGE 

pletely.  There  are  signs  of  such  a  structure,  and  one 
can  still  trace  the  grooves  in  the  sides  of  the  archway 
where  stout  oaken  doors  once  shut  out  unwelcome 
visitors.  Except  on  the  courtyard  side,  there  are  no 
openings  whatever  through  the  thick  stone  walls  of 
the  lower  story  of  the  Chateau.  In  fact,  this  lower 
story  hardly  counts.  It  is  cellar,  lumber  room,  wood 
shed,  vegetable  storehouse,  whatever  you  please, — 
even  in  the  north  wing  a  comfortable  stable  for  Coco, 
the  pony.  The  living  rooms  are  all  upstairs,  on  the 
first  floor.  It  was  safer  in  the  old  days  to  be  a  little 
out  of  reach,  and  to  have  the  windows  a  bit  above  the 
ground.  Otherwise  the  duke  might  have  slept  too 
well  and  never  wakened  more  to  sit  again  with  Mar- 
gherita  in  the  Italian  summer  house. 

It  is  rather  a  shock  to  remember  that  life  in  those 
days  was  so  constantly  on  the  defensive.  I  used  to 
fancy,  as  a  little  fellow,  that  the  people  could  never 
have  slept  well  with  precaution  in  the  very  air.  But 
one  gets  used  to  it,  I  suppose,  some  what  as  one  does  when 
one  goes  where  there  are  rattlesnakes.  A  few  get  bit 
ten,  but  the  majority  escape,  and  one  always  expects 
to  belong  to  the  majority.  And  then,  for  that  matter, 
we  have  only  got  one  step  beyond  those  old  dukes  of 
Savoy.  They  trusted  their  households,  and  distrusted 
their  immediate  neighbors.  We  trust  our  household 
and  our  immediate  neighbors,  and  distrust  our  distant 
ones,  that  is,  other  nations.  We  are  still  on  the  de 
fensive.  Christian  intercourse  between  nations,  com 
mon  decency  and  honesty,  have  only  been  set  up  as  a 

11 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


truce,  not  as  a  permanent  arrangement.  One  feels 
that  over  here.  The  peace  society  may  propose  to 
have  windows  on  the  ground  floor,  but  even  England 
and  America  do  not  take  the  proposition  seriously,  and 
his  majesty  of  Germany  twirls  his  fierce-looking  mus 
taches,  puts  on  another  uniform,  and  says  it 's  all  baby 
talk.  Well,  well,  perhaps  morality  will  sometime 
hold,  even  among  nations.  Four  hundred  years  from 
now,  —  and  four  hundred  years  are  a  small  matter  to 
us  geologists,  —  I  venture  to  say  that  our  descendants 
will  look  with  as  much  surprise  and  horror  upon  the 
military  savagery  of  the  old  days,  that  is,  our  present 
semi-civilized  days,  as  we  do  upon  the  guarded  bed 
room  of  the  late  dukes  of  Savoy.  I  wonder  what 
these  same  descendants  will  think  of  all  our  locks  and 
keys.  They  will  take  us  for  a  mighty  dishonest  crowd, 
or  else  fancy  that  the  March  winds  were  uncommonly 
strong. 

As  a  matter  of  daily  comfort,  I  like  this  habit  of 
living  upstairs  on  the  first  floor.  One  has  more  light 
and  more  air,  and  a  better  outlook.  It  is  drier,  too, 
and  sunnier,  and  in  me,  at  least,  it  produces  a  certain 
elation  to  be  some  little  distance  above  the  turf.  You 
must  not  think  that  I  shall  be  vexed  and  try  to  beg  off 
when  the  time  comes  for  me  to  be  put  under  it,  —  not 
a  bit  of  it,  —  but  meanwhile  I  want  to  be  as  luxu 
riantly  alive  as  possible,  with  the  reddest  sort  of  red 
blood  in  the  blue  Percyfield  veins. 

There  are  so  many  apartments  in  the  Chateau  that 
we  hardly  use  a  quarter  of  them.  Indeed,  our  life 

12 


THE  CHATEAU  DE  BEAU-RIVAGE 

centres  about  the  old  south  tower,  the  one  you  reach 
from  the  staircase  at  the  left-hand  corner  of  the  court 
yard.  On  the  first  floor  of  the  tower  there  are  two 
large  apartments,  the  dining-room  and  the  drawing- 
room.  They  are  ranged  side  by  side,  and  both  have 
great  windows  looking  toward  the  south.  The  draw 
ing-room  is  the  larger,  for  it  has  no  hallway  taken 
off.  It  stretches  across  the  entire  west  face  of  the 
tower,  and  has  a  large  double  window  looking  out 
on  the  lake  and  on  the  sunset.  It  is  a  room  full  of 
interest.  It  is  so  large  that  almost  a  dozen  groups 
could  talk  quietly  without  disturbing  one  another. 
The  walls  are  covered  with  very  old-fashioned  green 
brocade,  all  except  the  space  over  the  mantel,  and  that 
is  in  intricate  white  plaster  work.  The  furniture  is 
mostly  red,  but  there  are  delightful  old  chairs  whose 
original  color  it  would  be  difficult  to  guess.  Now  that 
the  room  is  in  its  winter  dress,  with  dark  red  hangings 
at  the  windows,  and  warm  rugs  covering  the  greater 
part  of  the  dark  oak  floor,  it  is  a  very  cosy  place 
indeed.  Charlotte,  herself,  could  not  find  in  all  Phila 
delphia  a  more  beautiful  room  in  which  to  hold  her 
Sunday  evening  salon.  Since  the  days  at  Bryn  Mawr, 
this  little  sister  of  mine  has  taken  to  having  a  salon, 
and  the  droll  part  is  that  she  manages  it  well.  One 
may  find  some  pretty  big  fish  a-swimming  in  those 
softly  lighted  waters. 

Of  course  this  old  drawing-room  is  shabby,  like  all 
the  rest  of  the  Chateau,  and  a  little  out  at  the  elbows. 
But  it  is  the  sort  of  shabbiness  that  means  no  loss  of 

13 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


self-respect,  and  it  only  serves  to  endear  the  room  all 
the  more. 

There  is  no  door  between  the  drawing-room  and  the 
dining-room.  Where  the  rooms  are  large  enough  to 
stand  such  isolation,  I  much  like  the  arrangement,  for 
it  gives  each  room  more  individuality.  Our  American 
plan  of  throwing  all  the  living  rooms  into  one  by 
sliding-doors  and  folding-doors  and  archways  and  the 
like,  sounds  very  jolly,  but  in  reality  it  makes  you  live 
pretty  much  in  a  heap,  and  when  the  door-bell  rings 
there  is  always  such  a  scurrying  with  the  portieres 
and  screens. 

The  dining-room  is  a  very  severe  apartment,  and 
would  never  in  the  world  be  acceptable  in  that  portion 
of  my  own  city  where  the  newly  rich  are  wont  to  con 
gregate.  But  I  like  its  bareness  and  its  spaciousness. 
One  can  fill  one's  lungs  without  expecting  the  closet- 
doors  to  fly  open  to  relieve  the  vacuum.  Everything 
is  generous,  and  everything  has  about  it  the  beauty  of 
entire  usableness.  The  bare  deal  floor  bears  witness 
to  its  own  sweet  cleanliness.  The  big  sofa  over  in  the 
corner,  covered  with  turkey-red  cotton,  was  meant  to 
sit  on,  rest  on,  lounge  on,  lie  on,  and  cannot  by  any 
amount  of  hard  usage  be  made  to  appear  other  than 
sound  and  decorous.  The  large,  inclosed  sideboard 
in  another  corner  shows  through  its  glass  doors  a 
brave  array  of  old  china  that  would  make  Charlotte 
fairly  green  with  envy.  The  large  windows  in  the 
south  end  of  the  room,  and  the  smaller  one  in  the 
eastern  corner,  are  all  double,  —  for  fuel  is  dear  in 

14 


THE   CHATEAU  DE   BEAU-KIVAGE 

Switzerland,  —  and  just  now  the  spaces  between  the 
casements  are  gay  with  red  geraniums  and  Japanese 
chrysanthemums.  Then  there  is  a  great  stone  fire 
place,  quite  big  enough  to  roast  a  whole  ox,  and  in 
design  sufficiently  quaint  and  irregular  to  defy  imita 
tion.  Over  the  fireplace  there  is  a  correspondingly 
big  picture,  so  old  that  no  one  remembers  who  painted 
it.  It  represents  two  long  wooden  tables,  on  which 
are  spread  out  in  painful  orderliness  every  variety  of 
fish  ever  caught  in  the  blue  waters  of  Lac  Leman,  — 
and  the  list  is  a  long  one.  They  are  evidently  done 
by  a  man  who  was  something  of  an  Izaak  Walton. 
Indeed,  it  is  quite  a  remarkable  picture,  in  a  zoological 
way.  The  stolid  little  boy  who  stands  in  one  corner 
of  the  picture  looks  as  cold-blooded  as  the  fishes. 

I  sit  at  table  directly  opposite  this  picture,  and  I 
never  look  at  it  without  thinking  of  Holland.  It  is 
just  the  sort  of  thing  those  old  Dutch  masters  delighted 
in,  —  that  is,  when  they  allowed  their  imagination  such 
wild  flight.  Usually  they  were  too  busy  painting  the 
homely  women  managers  of  orphan  asylums,  or  the 
bibulous  members  of  some  long  forgotten  guild.  If 
these  masters  had  only  used  their  tremendous  power 
in  painting  sweet  children  and  young  motherhood,  if 
they  had  only  given  us  something  that  we  could  love  ! 
For  myself,  I  prefer  Madonnas  and  juicy  babies  float 
ing  in  clouds  of  rose  and  old  gold,  subjects  that 
Murillo  and  Kaffaelle  delight  in,  things  that  are  eter 
nally  beautiful.  Of  course  you  do  not  see  these  things 
in  the  street,  or  on  'change,  but  the  worse  for  you 

15 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


that  you  do  not.  The  mission  of  art  is  higher.  It  is 
to  supplement  God,  and  to  add  new  beauties  to  the 
creation,  not  to  photograph  ugly  things  and  then  ask 
your  admiration  because  the  photographing  is  well 
done. 

There  is  a  fine  old  clock  in  the  corner  of  the  dining- 
room  that  might  have  served  for  the  original  of  Long 
fellow's  "  Clock  on  the  Stairs,"  for  it  seems  to  be  forever 
saying,  Toujours,  jamais  ;  jamais,  toujours.  I  never 
see  these  old  grandfather  clocks  without  a  touch  of 
envy.  We  have  a  fine  one  out  at  Uplands,  but  none 
at  all  in  the  town  house.  My  grandfather  Marston's 
will  some  day  be  mine,  but  now  it  belongs  to  a  dear 
old  lady  whom  I  love  so  much  better  than  all  the 
clocks  in  the  world  that  I  shall  come  into  possession 
sorrowfully.  So  I  designed  a  clock  myself.  It  had 
a  curious,  enameled  face  with  cabalistic  characters 
wrought  into  the  background,  and  a  case  made  of  the 
darkest  mahogany.  On  the  door  in  quaint  carved  let 
ters  were  the  words,  Toujours,  jamais ;  jamais, 
toujours.  But  the  clock  was  never  built,  and  this  is 
the  way  it  happened.  I  was  calling,  soon  after  I  fin 
ished  the  design,  on  my  professor  of  engineering.  It 
was  twilight,  and  beyond  finding  myself  a  chair,  I  could 
see  little  of  the  contents  of  the  drawing-room.  Pre 
sently  the  professor  came  down,  and  stopped  a  moment 
in  the  hall  to  turn  on  the  electric  light.  There  in  the 
corner  opposite  to  me  stood  my  identical  clock,  enam 
eled  dial,  mahogany  case,  even  the  words  on  the  door, 
except  that  they  were  painted  instead  of  being  carved. 

16 


THE  CHATEAU  DE  BEAU-RIVAGE 

It  made  me  feel  queer.  Of  course  I  asked  at  once 
where  the  clock  came  from  and  found  that  the  profes 
sor  had  built  the  case  himself  and  had  had  the  works 
made  at  the  clock  factory  up  at  Lancaster.  I  claimed 
the  whole  thing  as  mine,  but  the  professor  never  ac 
knowledged  my  claim.  When  I  went  home  the  next 
vacation,  I  tore  up  my  design.  I  felt  that  I  no  longer 
owned  it.  Instead,  I  had  an  elaborate  sun-dial  built  in 
the  garden,  and  on  it  I  put  this  motto:  "  I  count  only 
those  hours  which  are  serene."  It 's  a  capital  motto. 
If  I  remember  rightly,  it  is  takek  from  an  old  dial 
near  Venice.  I  got  it  out  of  Hazlitt's  "  Essays." 

Our  clock  at  the  Chateau  has  the  steadiness  of  age, 
and  we  march  very  promptly  to  its  orders.  Nine  o'clock 
finds  us  drinking  morning  coffee ;  twelve,  taking 
luncheon;  four,  drinking  afternoon  tea,  and  seven  at 
dinner.  It  is  the  quiet,  informal  life  of  a  generous  old 
country  house.  We  do  not  dress,  even  for  dinner. 
We  come  to  the  table  in  sack  coat  or  riding  suit,  as 
the  hour  happens  to  find  us.  We  have  but  two  for 
malities,  —  we  always  knock  at  the  dining-room  door, 
and  we  always  have  candles  at  dinner. 

The  next  floor  of  the  old  south  tower  contains  my 
own  room.  It  is  an  enormous  place,  I  should  say  at 
least  twenty  by  thirty  feet,  and  a  ceiling  high  enough 
to  be  vague.  The  room  is  so  big,  that  even  a  tall  man 
like  myself  has  somewhat  the  feeling  of  camping  out 
in  it.  The  particular  feature  in  the  room  is  the  great 
south  window.  When  the  casements  are  thrown  open, 
it  is  like  being  in  an  Italian  loggia.  And  what  a 

17 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


view !  If  Charlotte  could  only  see  it.  Near  at  hand 
is  the  old  orchard.  But  I  am  up  so  high  that  I  can 
only  see  the  very  treetops.  In  the  spring  time,  when 
the  apple  blossoms  are  out  in  full  force,  it  must  be 
like  heaven.  The  old  garden  stretches  out  below  me 
like  a  map.  Beyond  the  treetops,  there  are  a  few 
villas  and  some  thickly  planted  vineyards ;  then  a 
wooded  slope,  far  enough  off  to  have  its  green  touched 
with  blue,  and  back  of  that,  against  the  southern  sky, 
the  blue-gray  heights  of  Saleve.  To  the  right  is  the 
lake,  and  across  its  waters  the  brave  city  of  Geneva, 
the  city  of  the  Reformation.  In  the  daytime,  I  can 
see  its  bristling  Protestant  spires  pointing  heavenward 
with  even  more  of  certitude  than  St.  Peter's  dome  at 
Rome.  At  night,  the  rows  of  lights  shine  out  across 
the  waters  like  the  very  crown  of  the  faithful.  When 
I  have  put  my  own  lamp  out,  —  and  this  seldom  hap 
pens  until  after  midnight,  —  these  flashing  lights  of 
Geneva  carry  me  any  amount  of  good  cheer. 

If  I  stick  my  head  out  of  the  window  of  a  morning, 
as  I  generally  do,  I  see  still  further  to  the  right  the 
long  dark  line  of  the  Juras.  Just  now  they  have  a 
sprinkling  of  snow  on  them,  and  dark,  trailing  clouds 
hide  their  summits.  But  best  of  all,  to  the  extreme 
left,  I  can  see  the  immense  whiteness  of  Mt.  Blanc, 
and  that  always  gives  me  a  great  uplift. 

What  I  marvel  at  most  is  that  such  beauty  as  this 
could  have  produced  Monsieur  Jean  Calvin.  He  must 
have  stopped  at  home  whenever  the  sun  shone  and 
gone  abroad  only  in  gray  weather.  Then,  indeed,  the 

18 


THE  CHATEAU  DE  BEAU-RIVAGE 

cloud-covered  mountains  do  look  like  the  Hebrew 
prophets  of  denunciation.  Furthermore,  Monsieur 
Calvin  was  a  lawyer,  and  that  explains  a  great  deal. 
The  lawyers  do  have  a  way  of  getting  things  twisted. 
My  friend  the  economist  meant  to  be  a  lawyer,  but 
he  went  to  Halle,  and  like  every  one  who  goes  to  Halle 
and  listens  to  Herr  Conrad  he  came  home  an  econo 
mist.  But  he  told  me  that  for  some  months  after 
wards  he  never  saw  a  lawyer  without  patting  himself 
on  the  back  and  saying,  "  God  be  thanked."  And 
then  I  always  remember  that  agreeable  old  archbishop, 
who  used  occasionally  to  come  and  dine  with  my  grand 
father  Percyfield.  The  archbishop  was  much  sought 
after  in  the  dinner  way  by  gentlemen  who  had  made 
fat  fortunes  in  railways.  On  one  of  these  occasions  an 
attorney,  of  more  than  Philadelphia  reputation,  said  by 
way  of  pleasantry,  "Your  grace  will  naturally  give 
such  agreeable  hosts  free  passes  to  heaven."  "  On  the 
contrary,"  said  the  archbishop  affably,  "  I  shall  not 
like  to  separate  them  from  their  counsel."  This  story 
always  pleased  my  grandfather  Percyfield  mightily.  I 
am  afraid  it  would  have  shocked  my  grandfather  Mar- 
ston. 

When  the  sun  shines,  my  great  south  window  is  a 
blaze  of  glory,  and  speaks  always  of  that  love  which 
is  above  all  law,  —  the  law  which  Monsieur  Calvin  too 
much  emphasized,  and  the  love  which  he  too  much 
ignored. 

Then  I  have  an  east  window.  It  is  a  little  affair, 
with  full  three  feet  of  window-sill.  I  like  to  think 

19 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


that  this  room  of  mine  was  perhaps  the  bridal  chamber 
of  the  duke  and  duchess,  and  that  to  this  little  window 
Margherita  and  her  child  came  of  a  morning  to  taste 
the  early  sunshine.  I  picture  them  seated  on  the 
broad,  low  window-sill,  the  sun  turning  the  boy's 
golden  hair  into  an  aureole  of  glory,  and  the  tender 
mother-love  in  the  face  of  Margherita  making  her 
look  like  one  of  Murillo's  Madonnas.  And  then  I 
fall  to  thinking  of  my  own  Margaret,  and  wondering 
whether  I  shall  ever  find  her. 

But  this  big  apartment  in  the  south  tower  of  the 
old  Chateau  de  Beau-Rivage  is  more  than  a  mere 
play-room  for  the  fancy.  It  is  a  place  to  work,  and 
the  tools  are  very  much  in  evidence,  —  the  generous 
writing-table,  the  big  armchair,  the  scattered  manu 
scripts,  the  motley  collection  of  pens  and  pencils,  the 
still  unspoiled  stacks  of  paper.  It  is  a  studio,  but 
without  the  smell  of  paint  and  turpentine,  and  it  has 
been  consecrated  to  a  year  of  apprenticeship.  The 
master  craftsmen  are  on  the  book-shelf. 

Charlotte  does  not  altogether  like  this  fiction  of 
mine  in  calling  myself  an  artist ;  she  says  it  's  pre 
sumptuous.  But  really  it  is  not,  for  there  are  artists 
and  artists,  and  the  name  tells  simply  what  one 
would  be  if  one  could.  But  I  told  Charlotte,  by  way 
of  consolation,  that  whatever  came  of  the  experiment, 
the  year  would  certainly  be  a  success,  for  I  am  over 
here  for  the  indeterminate  good.  People  who  are  will 
ing  to  seek  this  are  never  defeated.  I  have  noticed 
that  when  one  is  hunting  a  particular  sort  of  sugar- 

20 


THE  CHATEAU  DE  BEAU-RIVAGE 

plum,  one  often  gets  another,  even  better  and  sweeter, 
but  never  knows  it,  because  the  mind  is  so  determined 
on  the  first.  It  was  Saul,  was  it  not,  who  went  hunt 
ing  for  his  father's  asses  and  found  a  kingdom? 
There  is  a  great  deal  to  be  said  for  this  doctrine  of 
the  indeterminate  good.  But  my  philosophy  made 
less  impression  on  Charlotte  than  it  should  have  done, 
considering  that  she  has  read  Hegel  in  the  original. 
Perhaps  it  was  not  paradoxical  enough  for  her  to 
understand.  A  philosopher  must  not  be  too  lucid  if 
he  wants  to  have  followers.  Next  time  I  shall  put  my 
wisdom  into  a  thicker  cover.  Then  perhaps  Charlotte 
will  take  to  it. 

At  any  rate  I  came  away.  I  thought  that  Char 
lotte  could  well  spare  me,  now  that  she  has  the  de 
voted  Frederic,  but  it  was  a  tearful  lady  who  saw  the 
gangplank  pulled  in  from  a  big  steamer  one  lovely 
morning  last  June,  and  as  for  myself,  I  confess  that 
my  heart  was  in  my  throat,  and  seemed  to  be  conspir 
ing  with  my  Adam's-apple  to  choke  me  quite.  But  it 
is  well  that  I  said  what  I  did  about  indefinite  results, 
for  after  all,  it  was  the  unexpected  that  happened. 


CHAPTER  H 

THE   UNITED    KINGDOM 

SOCIETY  at  the  Chateau  is  cosmopolitan.  We  re 
present  five  countries.  But  it  is  nearly  always  so  in 
Switzerland.  When  Charlotte  and  I  were  studying 
at  Zurich,  we  thought  it  the  meeting  place  of  the 
nations.  The  economist  warned  us  that  we  should  find 
it  the  headquarters  of  the  educated  malcontents  of 
Europe,  and  in  truth  we  saw  so  many  queer-looking 
people  that  we  judged  some  of  them,  at  least,  to  be 
discontented ;  we  had  less  chance  to  know  whether  they 
were  educated. 

But  Geneva  is  apparently  the  rendezvous  of  the  con 
tented  ones,  or  at  least  the  Chateau  de  Beau-Rivage  is. 

The  Chatelaine  represents  Switzerland,  and  does  it 
admirably.  She  is  a  gentlewoman  of  an  ancient  and 
honorable  family.  You  may  see  her  coat-of-arms,  done 
in  color,  hanging  between  the  great  south  windows  of 
the  dining-room.  The  Chatelaine  is  the  last  of  her 
family,  and  when  she  dies,  —  which  heaven  grant  may 
not  be  for  many  years  to  come,  —  the  Chateau  must 
pass  into  less  accustomed  and  less  reverent  hands.  I 
am  a  poor  judge  of  age,  but  I  should  say  that  the 
Chatelaine  is  over  forty.  Her  hair  is  silver-gray,  and 
singularly  abundant.  She  wears  it  combed  back  from 

22 


THE  UNITED  KINGDOM 


her  forehead  in  loose  curves.  Her  face  and  eyes  have 
all  the  appearance  of  youth,  and  her  trim  figure  is 
almost  girlish.  She  is  rather  short,  and  correspond 
ingly  slender.  When  she  stands  alongside  of  her  ma 
jestic  neighbor  of  Mon  Bijou,  you  realize  that  the 
Chatelaine  is  small,  but  taken  alone,  she  allows  no  such 
impression.  Her  shoulders  are  thrown  well  back,  the 
head  held  high,  and  her  carriage  is  absolutely  erect 
and  dignified.  She  always  dresses  well,  which  is  no 
small  merit  in  a  woman,  gentle  or  otherwise.  Usually 
she  wears  either  dark  green  or  purple,  and  both  colors 
go  excellently  with  her  magnificent  gray  hair.  Her 
cheeks  have  the  high  color  of  good  health.  She  agrees 
with  me  that  it  is  an  immoral  thing  to  be  ill.  She 
commonly  wears  no  ornaments,  a  temperance  which  I 
much  like,  but  on  special  occasions,  such  as  the  din 
ner  party  she  gave  me  on  my  birthday,  she  hangs  an 
old  family  jewel  about  her  neck,  a  dark-red  stone  set 
around  with  pearls.  Against  the  purple  velvet  of 
her  waist,  the  old  jewel  flashes  back  the  concentrated 
pride  of  generations  of  high-spirited  chatelaines.  If 
they  were  all  like  our  dear  little  mademoiselle,  so 
gentle,  so  brave,  so  altogether  kind,  they  may  well 
have  been  proud  of  themselves,  and  one  cannot  but 
feel  sad  that  so  honorable  and  worthy  a  house  has 
come  to  the  end  of  its  career.  I  can  well  imagine 
that  in  her  youth  the  Chatelaine  had  many  admirers, 
perhaps  lost  a  lover  by  death,  and  refused  to  make  the 
loss  good.  Back  of  her  serene,  self-contained  face  are 
many  possibilities.  There  seems  to  hang  about  her 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


person  the  same  richness  of  experience  that  permeates 
the  old  Chateau.  It  was  her  great  -grandfather  several 
times  removed,  Monsieur  Hyacinthe  de  Candolle,  who 
acquired  the  Chateau  from  the  duke  of  Savoy,  when 
the  duke  finally  moved  to  another  of  his  estates.  The 
Chatelaine  has  survived  her  distinguished  brother,  and 
the  beautiful  sister  who  was  all  spirit  and  all  fire. 
This  little  woman,  with  the  erect  carriage,  begotten  of 
generations  of  upright  ancestors,  is  in  reality  a  grand 
figure  quite  worthy  to  be  the  mistress  of  so  charming 
an  old  chateau. 

Such  is  our  good  hostess.  She  is  up  early  in  the 
morning.  She  goes  to  bed  late  at  night.  She  is  for 
ever  occupied  without  being  busy. 

It  is  a  great  gift,  that  of  being  occupied  without 
being  busy.  I  have  a  friend  at  home,  Graham  Har- 
lowe,  who  is  forever  busy  without  being  occupied. 
When  I  go  to  see  him  I  am  always  shown  directly 
upstairs  to  his  den,  and  there  the  poor  youth  sits,  half 
buried  in  papers  and  rubbish  of  all  sorts,  up  to  his 
ears  in  work,  and  never  accomplishing  anything.  I 
believe  he  does  produce  a  sonnet  once  in  three  years, 
the  sort  that  makes  us  so  much  the  poorer.  I  think 
he  calls  himself  a  student  of  comparative  literature, 
but  Charlotte  once  got  sight  of  the  stuff  on  his  table, 
—  obsolete,  juiceless  stuff  it  was,  —  and  ever  since  then 
she  has  dubbed  him  the  student  of  comparatively  poor 
literature.  Charlotte  has  not  my  grandfather  Percy- 
field's  objection  to  puns.  Harlowe  never  rises  when 
I  enter.  He  always  holds  out  his  hand  and  says, 

24 


THE  UNITED  KINGDOM 


"  Ah,  Percyfield,  so  glad  to  see  you.  Won't  you  sit 
down,  and  just  excuse  me  for  a  minute  till  I  finish 
looking  up  this  reference."  I  do  sit  down,  and  I  sel 
dom  wait  less  than  ten  minutes.  But  all  the  same,  I 
owe  Harlowe  my  thanks  for  this,  that  since  I  have 
known  him  —  and  we  were  at  college  together  —  I 
have  never  myself  been  busy.  Poor  Mr.  Miller,  who 
is  always  tired,  and  the  robust-looking  Mrs.  Codding- 
ton,  who  is  always  ill,  have  done  me  a  similar  good 
turn.  It  is  at  least  something  to  make  clear  to  people 
how  not  to  do  it. 

Besides  myself,  there  are  three  other  pensionnaires, 
loyal  subjects  of  his  majesty  of  Great  Britain  and 
Ireland,  and  as  they  hail  each  from  one  of  the  home 
countries,  I  call  them  collectively  the  United  King 
dom. 

Ireland  is  a  fragile  old  gentlewoman,  an  aristocrat 
to  the  backbone,  and  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a 
lost  rose  leaf  from  Versailles,  or  like  one  of  those 
quaint  Watteau  figures  on  the  old  painted  fan  that 
used  to  belong  to  my  grandmother  Percyfield,  and 
that  Charlotte  now  carries  so  gayly  to  the  German 
opera.  Ireland  has  perfectly  white  hair,  which  she, 
or  her  maid,  gathers  into  a  great  roll  on  the  top  of 
her  head,  after  the  pompadour  manner.  Her  skin  is 
fair  and  delicate  without  a  trace  of  color,  while  her 
eyes  are  a  faded  blue.  This  always  gives  pathos  to  a 
face  in  spite  of  the  high-born  curve  of  the  lids.  Ire 
land  apparently  disapproves  of  modern  gowns.  She 
wears  old-fashioned  flowered  silks  that  were  brand  new 

25 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


at  least  half  a  century  ago.  They  are  trimmed  with 
their  original  embroidered  edgings,  and  have  puffed 
sleeves.  Some  are  a  little  low  in  the  neck,  and  with 
these  Ireland  wears  a  triple  string  of  pearls  around 
her  throat,  and  a  corresponding  aigrette  in  her  hair. 
It  goes  without  saying  that  in  the  house  she  wears 
low-cut,  high-heeled  slippers.  You  must  not  suppose 
for  a  moment  that  I  would  have  our  gentle  Countess 
one  whit  different  from  what  she  is.  On  the  contrary, 
I  should  quite  resent  it  if  she  pored  over  the  cock 
ney  fashion  paper  that  Scotland  reads  so  religiously 
every  week,  and  shaped  her  gowns  accordingly.  Half 
Ireland's  charm  would  be  gone.  As  she  is,  I  find  her 
dainty,  delicious,  like  a  bit  of  old  Dresden  china,  or, 
as  I  said  before,  like  my  grandmother  Percyfield's 
painted  fan,  the  one  that  was  given  to  her  by  no  less 
a  person  than  Mr.  Madison  himself. 

And  Ireland,  like  most  Irish  gentlewomen,  speaks 
French  to  perfection.  She  has  quite  the  Parisian  ac 
cent  and  intonation.  It  has  something  mellow  and 
rare  about  it,  like  well-ripened  fruit  or  old  vintage 
wine.  Indeed  it  seems  to  fit  her  better  than  does  her 
native  tongue.  She  is  very  kind,  too,  in  helping  others 
out,  when  the  subjunctive  mood  or  the  position  of  the 
pronoun  threatens  disaster. 

England  is  Ireland's  devoted  friend,  and  is  built  on 
a  much  more  rugged  model.  The  two  women  sup 
plement  each  other  admirably.  It  is  plain  to  see  that 
England  fairly  worships  Ireland's  fragile  daintiness ; 
and  equally  plain  that  Ireland  looks  upon  England  as 


THE   UNITED   KINGDOM 


a  marvel  of  womanly  strength.  If  I  wrote  that  to 
Charlotte,  she  would  say  in  her  delightful,  mocking 
way,  "  How  true  it  is,  Kin,  that  we  are  apt  to  like 
what  we  ourselves  lack.  Don't  you  just  love  witty 
people  ? "  Charlotte  can  say  the  most  outrageous 
things  in  the  very  sweetest  manner.  Once  when  she 
was  tired  and  wanted  me  to  repeat  some  poetry  to  her, 
I  tried  to  beg  off  by  reminding  her  that  I  only  knew 
one  old  piece,  the  Legend  Beautiful,  and  added  gal 
lantly  that  I  did  not  want  to  bore  her,  to  which  she 
murmured,  "  But  you  can't  help  it,  you  know,  Kin,  so 
go  right  on."  I  wonder  how  Frederic  ever  managed 
to  propose.  He  has  courage. 

As  I  was  saying,  England  is  rugged.  She  has  a 
high  color,  jet  black  hair,  and  a  deep  voice  that  sounds 
almost  like  a  man's.  When  she  speaks,  we  all  stop 
and  listen.  She  is  one  of  those  masterful  women  to 
whom  one  assumes,  quite  unconsciously,  a  distinct 
manner.  I  always  say,  "  Yes,  Madame,"  "  No,  Ma 
dame,"  "  Do  you  think  so,  Madame  ?  "  much,  I  sup 
pose,  as  I  should  have  talked  to  Delphi,  had  the  oracle 
deigned  to  notice  me.  Now  with  Ireland,  it  is  quite 
different.  I  never  say  "  Madame  "  to  her.  I  always 
speak  with  a  certain  gentle  deference,  as  one  would  to 
a  sweet  child,  and  quite  by  instinct,  I  lower  my  voice 
by  a  full  half  tone.  I  find  myself,  too,  using  old- 
fashioned  phrases.  I  should  never  think  of  quoting 
her  any  of  Charlotte's  college  slang,  any  more  than  I 
should  think  of  wearing  a  dress  suit  to  church.  I  even 
purr  softly  after  her  own  manner,  and  say  the  most 

27 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


obvious  platitudes  as  if  they  were  brand  new  dis 
coveries  and  worth  a  struggle  with  the  idiomatic 
vagaries  of  the  French  tongue. 

With  England  I  talk  politics.  But  though  I  am  so 
very  respectful  before  this  aggressive  English  matron, 
I  do  not  hesitate  to  deny  every  single  item  in  her 
political  creed.  She  is  a  typical  islander,  provincial 
as  they  come,  and  even  your  educated  Englishman  can 
be  very  provincial.  Furthermore,  she  is  an  imperialist 
of  the  imperialists.  She  takes  great  comfort  out  of 
her  creed.  After  the  heavenly  hosts,  she  adores  the  late 
queen  and  the  royal  family,  even  to  the  third  and  fourth 
generation.  England  softens  her  voice  when  she  men 
tions  any  one  of  them,  until  it  sounds  quite  reverential, 
and  she  is  pretty  sure  to  add  some  endearing  adjective. 
It  is  "  Our  dear  queen,"  "  Our  beautiful  princess," 
"  Our  noble  prince." 

I  doubt  not  that  kings  and  queens  may  have  served 
some  wise  purpose,  for  the  ways  of  Providence  are 
inscrutable,  but  I  do  think  they  have  had  their  day. 
And  of  all  stupid  things,  it  must  be  the  stupidest  to 
be  one  of  them.  They  have  pretty  much  given  up  the 
inconvenience  of  crowns  and  ermine,  except  when  they 
have  their  pictures  taken,  but  the  interminable  red 
tape,  from  morning  till  night,  from  night  till  morning, 
must  be  simply  dreadful.  When  I  say  these  things  to 
England,  she  does  not  even  reply.  She  looks  at  me 
with  quiet  pity. 

England's  next  object  of  worship  is  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race.  I  think  myself  that  it  is  a  pretty  fine  race  that 

28 


THE  UNITED  KINGDOM 


can  produce  Mr.  Washington,  and  Mr.  Lincoln,  and 
my  grandfather  Percyfield.  But  where  we  cross  swords, 
England  and  I,  is  as  regards  their  mission,  the  direc 
tion  in  which  this  superiority  ought  to  spend  itself. 
I  am  all  for  self-conquest,  —  as  indeed,  how  could  a 
disciple  of  Mr.  Emerson  be  otherwise  ?  —  for  perfect 
ing  ourselves,  our  family  life,  our  institutions,  for 
dazzling  and  conquering  the  rest  of  the  world  by  the 
irresistible  force  of  our  example.  I  cannot  believe, 
myself,  in  the  white  man's  burden.  It  seems  to  me 
like  pulling  the  mote  out  of  your  brother's  eye.  I 
like  to  believe  in  the  white  man's  splendid  privilege 
of  making  the  most  he  can  out  of  himself,  and  of 
helping  his  yellow  or  black  brother,  without  patroniz 
ing  him,  or  robbing  him,  or  shooting  him,  or  even 
giving  him  cheap  Testaments  as  a  preface  to  several 
hundred  per  cent,  profit  on  cheap  goods.  It  is  fine 
practice  to  cross  swords  with  England  and  test  my 
own  strength  and  coherence.  Sometimes  at  home  I 
make  stump  speeches  to  Charlotte.  I  do  not  know 
that  she  always  listens,  but  she  sits  patiently  before 
the  fire,  while  I  stride  up  and  down  the  long  drawing- 
room  at  Uplands.  "  This  slumming  business  is  all 
wrong,"  I  say  to  her,  "  whether  it  be  local  or  national. 
It  is  an  impertinence  to  interfere  with  other  people's 
affairs.  What  you  want  to  do  is  to  change  their  ideas 
and  then  their  affairs  will  mend  themselves  quick 
enough.  You  put  bathtubs  into  your  model  tene 
ment  houses,  and  your  Italians  and  Poles  find  them 
excellent  storage  boxes  for  potatoes  and  cabbages. 

29 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


What  you  want  to  give  them  is  the  idea  of  cleanli 
ness  and  then  a  tin  basin  will  suffice,"  —  "  you  forget 
the  water  and  the  soap  "  puts  in  Charlotte  mockingly, 
but  I  go  right  on,  —  "  ideas  are  the  open  sesame,  the 
wonder  workers.  And  this  you  can  impart  by  no 
artificial  contact,  no  occasional  slumming  at  home,  no 
sharp  bargaining  and  psalm-singing  abroad.  You  must 
live  your  own  sweet,  natural  life,  just  as  ideal  as  you 
can  make  it,  and  then  let  the  good  contagion  spread. 
Clear  up  your  own  spiritual  vision  and  look  to  it  that 
you  see  things  straight  and  true  yourself.  Idealize 
the  relations  of  daily  life,  with  the  cook,  the  waitress, 
the  gardener,  the  grocery  man,  the  boy  who  brings  the 
newspaper  or  the  telegram,  with  the  neighbor.  Be 
just  as  polite  to  your  relatives  as  you  are  to  other 
people.  Don't  read  your  letters  at  the  breakfast  table  " 
—  "  Thanks,"  murmurs  Charlotte.  —  "  It  will  take  the 
whole  twenty-four  hours  to  do  this  and  the  whole  of 
life  to  bring  the  process  to  any  degree  of  perfection. 
It  is  the  same  with  nations.  Let  America  perfect  her 
own  national  life,  let  her  be  at  once  what  she  is  des 
tined  to  be  ultimately,  the  very  greatest  nation  in 
history.  Let  her  be  unselfish  and  just  and  generous 
in  her  dealings  with  other  nations,  and  this  whether 
they  be  white  or  yellow  or  black,  whether  they  be 
strong  or  weak.  That  would  be  the  modern,  moral 
way  of  imitating  the  conquests  of  Alexander." 

In  spite  of  her  mockery,  Charlotte  agrees  with  these 
ideas  of  mine,  and  really  has  a  very  clear  head  for 
politics.  Only  when  I  get  on  too  high  a  horse,  she 

30 


THE   UNITED   KINGDOM 


has  a  droll  way  of  calling  me  down  that  I  rather 
fancy  is  entirely  wholesome.  Miss  Polyhymnia,  who 
has  an  apt  name  for  everybody,  calls  Charlotte  the 
"  Balance  Wheel."  She  used  to  call  my  grandfather 
Percyfield  "  Grosspapa,"  which  was  something  of  a 
liberty  with  so  dignified  an  old  gentleman,  but  I  think 
he  rather  liked  it.  Miss  Polyhymnia  has  sound  ideas, 
too,  about  the  amenities  of  daily  life,  the  "minor 
morals  "  as  she  calls  them. 

When  I  talk  back  to  England  in  this  anti-imperi 
alistic  way,  she  cannot  deny  what  I  say.  She  has 
read  her  prayer-book  too  carefully  not  to  know  some 
thing  of  the  Christian  religion,  but  she  sighs  the  way 
people  will  when  they  have  to  do  presumably  with 
Utopians.  She  does  not  seem  to  have  much  faith  in 
the  kingdom  that  is  to  come,  though  she  prays  for  it, 
I  dare  say,  once  or  twice  a  day.  She  reminds  me  of 
a  young  girl  who  lives  near  Uplands.  Charlotte  had 
been  thrown  from  her  horse,  and  was  pretty  badly 
injured.  My  aunt  Percyfield  feared  that  she  would 
die  and  had  prayers  for  her  recovery  offered  at  St. 
David's.  When  Charlotte  was  well  enough  to  have 
visitors,  this  young  girl  came  to  see  her  at  once,  and 
fairly  sobbed  over  her.  "My  dear  Charlotte,"  she 
cried,  "  I  never  expected  to  see  you  alive,  for  they 
prayed  for  your  recovery  in  church,  and  they  never 
do  that  unless  there  is  no  hope."  England  takes  the 
ideal  part  of  her  creed  in  much  the  same  way,  without 
ever  expecting  it  to  come  true,  and  such  prayers,  as 
every  one  who  has  tried  them  knows,  avail  absolutely 

31 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


nothing.  My  own  prayers  are  short,  but  they  go 
straight  to  the  great  Soul  of  the  Universe,  for  I  my 
self  believe  in  them. 

I  never  really  expect  to  convert  England  to  my 
ideas,  but  we  renew  the  contest  from  time  to  time,  and 
I  must  say  for  her  that  she  is  a  fair  listener.  But 
what  can  you  expect  of  people  who  believe  in  such 
confounded  nonsense  as  kings  and  queens. 

Ideas  go  in  bunches.  Granting  the  right  of  a  par 
ticular  family  to  rule  over  a  whole  people,  and  it  is  a 
short  step  to  Madame's  doctrine  that  this  particular 
people  has  the  right  to  rule  over  the  whole  world,  —  if 
it  can.  I  suppose  one  could  travel  the  road  backward. 
If  America  should  ever  be  seriously  bitten  with  the 
idea  of  empire,  it  would  be  a  short  step,  I  fear  me,  to 
having  one  man  rule  America.  And  in  that  event  we 
ought  to  be  very  docile,  for  what  we  give  to  others  we 
ought  to  be  willing  to  accept  for  ourselves.  Otherwise 
we  should  not  be  living  up  to  the  Golden  Rule.  And 
the  emperor,  hang  him,  might  be  as  firmly  convinced 
of  his  own  superiority  to  the  rest  of  us  common  men  as 
we  were  of  our  collective  superiority  to  other  nations. 

But  England,  like  all  misguided  people,  is  obstinate. 
She  persists  in  maintaining  that  the  Anglo  -  Saxon 
mission  is  nothing  short  of  world  conquest.  Though 
the  poor  of  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow  are  the  most  de 
praved  creatures  in  the  world,  unless,  indeed,  our  own 
New  York  and  Chicago  poor  equal  them  ;  and  though 
it  is  not  pleasant  for  a  decent  man  or  woman  to  go 
abroad  in  London  city  after  ten  o'clock  of  nights, 

32 


THE   UNITED  KINGDOM 


England  still  holds  that  it  is  the  Anglo-Saxon  mission 
to  rule  India  and  if  possible  the  rest  of  Asia  and 
Africa,  and  as  many  of  the  isles  of  the  sea  as  she  can 
gather  into  her  drag-net.  I  quote  Shakespeare  to  her, 
—  "  You  yourself  are  much  condemned  to  have  an  itch 
ing  palm,"  —  it  avails  not.  And  when  I  point  out  to 
her  the  immense  human  cost  of  this  domineering  im 
perialism,  how  the  fresh,  wholesome  young  English 
men,  who  have  sailed  so  bravely  out  of  Plymouth  or 
Southampton  Bay,  have  come  back  from  India  or  the 
Cape,  or  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  world,  spoiled, 
arrogant,  with  all  the  vices  that  come  to  the  conquer 
ors  of  inferior  peoples,  how  their  children  lack  the 
rosy  cheeks  and  moral  health  of  the  home  nurseries, 
how  the  greatest  curse  of  slavery  has  always  been  on 
the  slaveholders,  then  England  retorts  by  throwing 
me  a  line  of  Kipling's,  or  by  saying  in  her  most  ma 
jestic  bass,  "  Remember,  Mr.  Percyfield,  that  my  fathei 
was  a  colonel  in  the  Indian  service." 

This  stops  the  conversation  at  once,  for  however 
hot  one  may  be  in  a  cause,  one  cannot  talk  to  a  lady 
against  her  father,  or  even  against  the  class  to  which 
he  may  have  had  the  misfortune  to  belong.  As  the 
French  say,  it  is  not  polite  to  mention  a  rope  in  the 
house  of  a  man  that 's  been  hung. 

But  one  goes  on  thinking  all  the  same,  and  praying 
that  the  party  of  Little  England  may  in  the  end  pre 
vail,  and  that  in  America,  by  God's  grace,  there  may 
never  be  any  party  but  that  of  Little  America,  if  such 
a  term  can  be  applied  to  anything  so  already  colossal. 

33 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


But  though  England's  color  deepens,  and  I  forget  to 
eat  my  dinner,  we  remain  good  friends,  and  we  talk 
about  many  other  things  besides  politics.  Sometimes 
the  conversation  is  even  so  mild  as  to  be  open  to  Scot 
land.  Scotland  is  a  young  thing,  a  matter  of  eighteen 
or  nineteen,  I  should  say.  How  she  ever  came  to  be 
connected  with  Ireland  and  England,  beyond  the  bond 
established  by  James  First  and  Sixth  — "  Nothing  wa 
vering  "  —  I  am  at  a  loss  even  to  conjecture.  It  was 
several  days  before  I  saw  Scotland  distinctly  enough  to 
have  recognized  her  on  the  road.  She  is  an  illusive 
sort  of  person.  But  now  I  never  look  at  her  without 
thinking  of  Stevenson's  aunt.  When  Robert  Louis 
asked  her  if  she  had  been  pretty  as  a  girl,  she  an 
swered,  you  remember,  "  Well,  I  was  na  exactly  what 
ye  would  ha'  called  bonny,  but  I  was  pale,  penetrating, 
and  interesting."  That  is  Scotland  precisely,  and  in 
addition  she  is  a  most  exasperating  person.  The  bother 
is  in  her  eyes.  She  has  sleepy  eyes  that  are  half 
closed  most  of  the  time.  Now  it  is  a  great  mistake 
to  think  that  people  with  sleepy  eyes  are  necessarily 
stupid.  On  the  contrary,  they  often  see  more  than 
people  with  wide-open  eyes.  The  most  unobservant 
man  I  ever  knew  had  great,  staring,  blue  eyes.  And 
then  again,  by  shutting  out  a  lot  of  nonsense,  these 
sleepy-eyed  folk  sometimes  get  in  a  deal  of  thinking.  I 
have  reasoned  all  this  out,  and  understand  it  perfectly, 
but  somehow  I  am  forever  failing  to  apply  it  with 
Scotland.  I  am  always  making  allowances  for  her, 
and  expecting  her  to  be  more  stupid  than  she  is,  and 

34 


THE  UNITED  KINGDOM 


then  when  it  turns  out  otherwise,  it  is  very  aggravat 
ing.  Scotland  has  a  nasty  habit  of  stopping  indoors, 
even  when  the  sun  shines,  and  both  the  Alps  and  the 
Juras  are  making  loud  bids  for  one's  admiration.  I 
do  not  approve  of  Scotland  at  all.  She  writes  long  love 
letters  to  that  bare-legged  Scottish  laird  of  hers,  and 
pores  over  cockney  fashion  papers,  and  does  other 
things  equally  stupid.  She  had  much  better  be  out 
doors  getting  a  little  color  into  her  pale  cheeks.  I 
took  her  to  task  about  it  this  evening.  She  is  nine  or 
ten  years  younger  than  I  am,  and  the  duties  of  the 
elder  brother  sometimes  weigh  rather  heavily  upon  me. 
At  times,  Scotland  is  so  irrelevant.  The  other  day 
I  was  talking  very  earnestly  at  the  luncheon  table, 
and  talking  pretty  well,  I  think,  for  the  Chatelaine 
and  Ireland  and  England  all  listened  attentively. 
I  was,  perhaps,  a  little  carried  away  by  my  own  elo 
quence,  as  Charlotte  puts  it,  and  talked  a  few  mo 
ments  too  long.  When  I  paused  for  breath,  Scotland 
said,  —  very  abruptly  I  thought,  —  "  There  was  an 
American  lady  at  the  Chateau,  last  year,  who  had  a 
little  donkey  with  her.  If  one  were  to  ride  it  into 
Geneva,  what  autumn  fruit  would  one  represent?" 
Conundrums  are  so  trivial  anyway,  and  this  was  so  out 
of  place  on  top  of  our  serious  talk,  that  none  of  us 
made  any  attempt  to  guess  it.  It  was  only  for  polite 
ness'  sake  that  I  begged  Scotland  to  tell  us  the  answer, 
for  it  is  very  dismal  when  one's  conundrums  go  both 
unguessed  and  unanswered.  "  A  pear,"  said  Scotland, 
innocently.  I  looked  at  her  sharply,  but  you  can 

36 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


never  tell  with  these  sleepy-eyed  people  whether  they 
are  quizzing  you  or  not. 

England  has  no  great  sense  of  humor,  and,  after 
wards,  in  repeating  the  story,  I  heard  her  say  that 
the  answer  was  an  apple. 

Poor  Scotland  is  really  too  young  to  have  come  out 
from  home.  She  ought  to  be  at  one  of  those  schools 
for  the  daughters  of  gentlemen,  that  abound  between 
London  and  Harrow-on-the-Hill.  It  must  be  dull  for 
her  here.  She  does  not  speak  more  than  about  two 
words  of  French.  We  sometimes  use  English  at  the 
table,  so  that  she  can  understand,  but  commonly  it  is 
French,  for  England  and  I  have  a  laudable  desire  to 
improve  our  accent,  and,  indeed,  we  can  hardly  afford 
to  leave  the  Chatelaine  out  of  the  talk.  Of  course, 
the  Chatelaine  speaks  English,  but  she  is  at  her  best 
in  French.  She  has  that  rare  gift  of  comradeship, 
and  we  all  of  us  turn  to  her  like  flowers  to  the  sun. 
She  is  a  sturdy  little  person.  For  her,  as  for  all 
Genevois,  the  central  fact  of  history  is  the  Reforma 
tion,  and  she  is  not  a  little  proud  that  her  own  brave 
city  of  Geneva  should  have  been  one  of  its  cradles. 
But  she  is  not  illiberal.  She  took  me  the  other  Sun 
day  afternoon  to  a  meeting  of  the  theosophical  society, 
where  we  heard  Monsieur  le  professeur  Flournoy  and 
Monsieur  le  docteur  Pascal  disagree  about  the  merits 
of  a  certain  Madame  Blavatsky. 

Ireland  and  England  have  morning  coffee  in  their 
own  salon.  The  Chatelaine  drinks  it  at  some  unearthly 
hour,  and  Scotland,  for  unaccountable  reasons,  prefers 

36 


THE  UNITED  KINGDOM 


to  come  to  the  salle  a  manger,  so  she  and  I  must 
needs  breakfast  together.  I  get  up  with  the  crowing 
of  the  cock,  but,  like  Carmen  Sylva,  I  must  add,  of  a 
cock  that  does  not  crow  until  eight  o'clock.  I  am 
very  wide  awake  by  nine,  and  even  Scotland  opens 
her  eyes  a  little  wider  than  at  other  times.  She  is 
also  a  trifle  less  wicked  at  morning  coffee.  When  I 
write  this  to  Charlotte,  I  add  that  good  communica 
tions  correct  evil  manners,  but  Charlotte  retorts  that 
it  is  a  poor  reformation  that  won't  last  a  whole  day. 
As  breakfast  in  Switzerland  consists  of  coffee  and  rolls 
and  butter  and  honey,  there  is  little  to  interrupt  con 
versation,  and  Scotland  and  I  talk  fast  and  furiously. 
It  is  often  about  books.  Scotland  has  the  most  un 
reliable  taste  in  literary  matters  of  any  one  I  ever 
knew.  She  seems  to  have  read  some  very  good  books 
in  her  day  and  recommends  them  to  me  quite  seri 
ously, —  books  that  everybody  has  read,  and  that  I 
have  virtually  grown  up  on.  I  wonder  what  she  thinks 
we  do  in  America  of  an  evening  and  a  Sunday.  Then, 
with  the  same  enthusiasm,  she  praises  the  veriest  trash 
that  ever  you  saw,  and  even  fetches  me  the  books 
themselves  so  that  I  may  be  sure  to  read  them. 
Some  of  them  I  flatly  refuse,  but  others  I  have  to 
swallow.  I  always  return  them  with  a  growl.  Scot 
land  looks  surprised,  and  says,  very  innocently,  "  And 
did  n't  you  like  it,  Mr.  Percyfield  ?  "  I  half  suspect 
that  she  is  quizzing  me,  —  these  Scots  are  such  canny 
people.  But  I  never  avoid  Scotland.  I  take  my 
grandfather  Percyfield's  view  of  the  case,  and  count 

37 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


her  a  part  of  my  education.  But  I  fear  me  that  if 
Charlotte,  my  dear  Balance  Wheel,  heard  me  say  that, 
she  would  inform  me  very  promptly  that  I  was  a  bit 
of  a  prig. 

Of  late  I  have  got  into  the  habit  of  dropping  into 
the  salon  of  the  United  Kingdom,  and  drinking  after 
noon  tea  with  them.  On  Sundays  and  Thursdays,  you 
can  buy  very  nice  little  buns  up  at  the  village,  and  I 
usually  fetch  a  package  of  them  as  my  contribution 
to  the  feast.  I  am  really  very  fond  of  the  dainty, 
porcelain-like  Ireland,  and  the  rugged,  unregenerate 
England.  Even  Scotland  is  like  the  proverbial  singed 
cat  that  my  aunt  Percyfield  is  always  talking  about, 
and  is  better  than  she  looks. 

The  salon  of  the  United  Kingdom  is  in  the  east 
wing  of  the  Chateau,  on  the  south  side  of  the  court 
yard,  and  is  really  a  very  grand  apartment.  In  the 
matter  of  furniture  it  is  quite  the  best  thing  that  we 
have.  Among  the  three  of  them,  the  United  King 
dom  have  some  splendid  old  rugs  and  draperies,  and 
Bellagio  blankets,  in  point  of  beauty  quite  beyond 
anything  I  have  ever  seen  in  America.  When  I  praise 
the  apartment,  as  I  do  involuntarily  nearly  every 
afternoon  that  I  go  into  it,  England  says  stoutly  that 
it  is  the  cream  of  the  Chateau.  But  I  tell  her  that  this 
cannot  be,  for  the  cream  always  rises  to  the  top,  and 
that  my  own  room,  up  in  the  south  tower,  is  undeni 
ably  the  cream.  Under  my  banter,  I  am  really  much 
in  earnest.  I  am  always  happiest  when  I  am  at  the 
top  of  a  building.  Like  Monsieur  Souvestre,  I  would 

38 


THE  UNITED  KINGDOM 


be  a  philosopher  under  the  eaves.  At  Uplands  my 
study  is  a  great  garret,  whose  windows  give  me 
a  splendid  view  of  our  beautiful  Chester  valley, 
and  whose  bare  rafters  make  the  most  delightful 
shadows.  Charlotte,  the  practical  one,  says  that  this 
taste  of  mine  is  due  to  the  fact  that  I  am  a  bit 
"  skyey  "  anyway.  But  I  notice  that  if  it  be  so,  she 
likes  heaven  pretty  well  herself,  for  she  often  comes 
up  to  my  garret  and  sits  in  front  of  my  rough  stone 
fireplace.  It  was  here  that  she  told  me  about  Fred 
eric.  There  is  another  charm  to  this  study  of  mine ; 
it  holds  always  select  company.  I  admit  no  one  that 
I  do  not  like.  In  this  way  I  preserve  a  certain  atmos 
phere.  Being  at  the  top  of  the  house,  it  is  easy  to 
exclude  the  less  welcome  guest.  I  never  ask  my  aunt 
Percyfield  up,  but  for  that  matter  I  rather  suspect  she 
prefers  her  own  more  conventional  sitting-room  on  the 
first  floor.  It  is  worth  remembering,  before  you  grow 
too  contrite  about  avoiding  people  who  bore  you,  that 
it  is  just  possible  you  may  bore  them. 

When  I  mention  this  exclusiveness  to  the  United 
Kingdom,  they  say  that  it  is  the  same  with  their  salon, 
and  that  I  must  understand  why  I  am  invited.  I  rise 
and  bow,  pressing  my  hand  gallantly  to  my  heart,  but 
thinking  the  while  that  it  would  have  been  more  subtle 
not  to  have  added  the  last  part  of  the  remark.  Many 
a  compliment  is  spoiled  by  being  made  too  obvious. 
The  French  have  a  clever  way  of  suggesting  things. 
The  trouble  is  they  don't  always  mean  them.  If  we 
could  keep  our  Anglo-Saxon  honesty  and  mix  with  it 

39 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


something  of  the  Gallic  subtlety,  what  a  people  we 
should  be  !  If  one  must  choose,  I  should  always  take 
the  honesty,  let  it  be  never  so  blunt.  But  I  am  in 
clined  to  think  that  we  might  have  both.  It  seems 
to  me  that  Charlotte  has  ;  she  is  both  subtle  and 
downright.  And  she  is  so  funny  with  it  all.  I  re 
member  once  when  my  aunt  Percyfield  was  about  to 
scold  Charlotte  for  some  prank  or  other,  she  began 
her  lecture  by  saying,  "  Now  I  don't  want  to  be  dis 
agreeable,"  when  Charlotte,  quoting,  I  think,  from 
some  book  she  had  just  been  reading,  remarked  very 
sweetly,  "  Then  why,  dear  aunt,  do  violence  to  your 
inclination  ? "  My  aunt  Percyfield  shut  her  teeth 
very  tightly  together,  and  deigned  no  reply.  She  is 
rather  a  severe  old  gentlewoman. 

Ireland  always  makes  the  tea,  and  England  passes 
the  village  buns,  or,  these  lacking,  slices  of  bread  and 
butter,  so  very  thin  that  you  can  hardly  catch  hold  of 
them,  and  when  at  last  you  do  get  hold  of  them,  you 
are  pretty  sure  to  stick  your  fingers  straight  through 
the  bread  and  get  them  all  covered  with  butter.  I 
wonder  whoever  originated  the  idea  that  it  is  the  thing 
to  cut  bread  in  this  idiotic  fashion. 

Scotland,  although  the  youngest  of  the  party,  passes 
nothing,  —  hardly  the  time  of  day,  —  but  establishes 
herself  on  a  sofa  in  a  distant  corner  of  the  room,  and 
scarcely  says  a  word,  except  to  beg  that  her  tea  shall  be 
made  very  strong.  But  for  myself,  I  take  my  tea  hot 
and  very  weak,  for  I  hold  with  the  orientals  that  a  deli 
cate  flavor  is  better  than  a  rank  one,  violets  than  onions. 

40 


THE  UNITED  KINGDOM 


Ireland's  tea  equipage  is  stunning,  —  a  quaint  sil 
ver  samovar  that  I  think  she  told  me  she  picked  up 
at  Prague.  But  it  is  not  quite  so  quaint  as  one  that 
my  friend  Mrs.  Lewis  has,  and  it  lacks  the  same  inter 
esting  habit  of  exploding.  Mrs.  Lewis  lives  out  at 
Chestnut  Hill,  which,  you  must  know,  stands  second 
only  to  my  own  beautiful  Chester  valley  in  being  the 
prettiest  suburb  of  Philadelphia.  Mrs.  Lewis's  samo 
var  does  quite  wonderful  things.  It  stands  in  the 
drawing-room  on  a  little  table  in  front  of  the  sofa. 
One  afternoon,  when  Mrs.  Lewis  was  making  tea 
there,  and,  I  suppose,  had  the  spirit  flame  a  bit  too 
high,  the  samovar  went  off  like  a  geyser,  and  sent  a 
fountain  of  boiling  tea  up  to  the  very  ceiling.  And 
there,  in  plain  view,  it  left  an  unsightly  spot.  This 
was  no  slight  disaster,  for  Mrs.  Lewis's  house  is  old, 
and  the  walls  are  done  in  a  sort  of  kalsomining  wash, 
that  you  cannot  at  all  patch  up  in  case  of  accident, 
but  must  decorate  entirely  afresh.  Furthermore,  Mrs. 
Lewis,  as  every  one  knows,  has  some  beautiful  pic 
tures  in  her  drawing-room,  and  it  would  have  been  a 
serious  undertaking  to  dismantle  the  room  and  hand 
it  over  to  the  decorators.  It  was  a  question  what  to 
do.  While  the  matter  was  still  under  discussion,  Mrs. 
Lewis  was  again  making  tea,  and  in  the  same  spot. 
But  this  time  the  samovar  had  only  hot  water  in  it ; 
the  tea  had  not  yet  been  added.  Again  the  flame  was 
too  high,  I  suppose,  for  again  the  samovar  became  a 
geyser.  A  column  of  boiling  water  rose  hissing  to  the 
ceiling.  Mrs.  Lewis  was  beginning  to  think  that  her 

41 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


quaint  samovar  was  possessed  of  an  evil  spirit,  and 
had  better  be  retired  from  active  service  ;  but  no  such 
fate  befell  it,  for  when  the  ceiling  dried  the  unsightly 
spot  had  entirely  disappeared.  A  samovar  that  can 
spoil  your  ceiling  for  you,  and  then  repair  it,  is  not  a 
thing  to  be  put  lightly  on  the  shelf.  I  was  not  present 
when  all  this  happened,  but  Mrs.  Lewis  is  a  very 
truthful  woman,  and  she  told  me  the  story  herself.  It 
was  one  day  when  I  was  taking  luncheon  with  her. 
There  were  four  of  us,  —  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewis,  my 
good  friend  Mrs.  Thorne,  and  myself.  Something  else 
rather  interesting  happened  that  day.  In  the  dining- 
room  there  is  a  splendid  big  Tintoretto,  one  of  the  very 
few  that  are  owned  in  America,  a  Claude  Lorraine 
landscape,  and  several  other  notable  canvases  that 
would  now  be  hanging  in  the  Louvre  if  French  gold 
could  buy  them.  Opposite  to  me  and  over  the  door 
leading  into  the  pantry  there  was  a  landscape  by 
Hunt,  and  of  such  splendid  coloring  that  at  once  I 
thought  of  Titian.  After  luncheon,  when  we  were 
making  the  round  of  the  pictures,  Mrs.  Lewis  asked 
if  this  one  did  not  remind  us  of  an  old  master,  and 
begged  us  to  tell  her  which  one.  Mrs.  Thorne  would 
hazard  no  guess,  and  mine  seemed  quite  too  wild  to 
mention.  But  when  Mrs.  Lewis  said  that  the  picture 
always  reminded  her  of  Titian,  I  hastened  to  confess 
the  same  thought,  and  added,  "  I  think  I  know  the 
very  picture  you  have  in  mind.  It  is  the  Earthly  and 
the  Heavenly  Love,  and  hangs  in  the  Villa  Borghese 
at  Rome.  It  is  the  wonderful  sky  that  is  the  same  in 

42 


THE  UNITED  KINGDOM 


both  pictures."  It  happened  that  I  was  right,  and 
Mrs.  Lewis  went  on  to  tell  us  something  of  the  his 
tory  of  the  picture.  When  she  first  owned  it,  the 
horizon  was  crooked  —  there  was  a  stretch  of  ocean 
in  the  picture  —  and  on  the  cliff  in  the  foreground 
a  couple  of  little  boys  in  decidedly  store  clothes  were 
playing,  of  all  games  in  the  world,  croquet.  One 
day  when  Hunt  was  at  the  house,  Mrs.  Lewis  asked 
him  to  straighten  the  horizon  for  her.  He  was  so 
good-natured  about  it  that  she  ventured  to  ask  as  an 
additional  favor  that  the  little  boys  and  their  store 
clothes  and  their  mallets  and  balls  and  wickets  might 
be  sent  where  they  belonged,  and  the  onlooker  be 
allowed  to  enjoy  the  wonderful  sky  in  peace.  It  was 
done  at  once,  and  now  the  picture  is  wholly  beautiful. 
They  say  there  is  a  woman  back  of  every  good  picture 
that  ever  was  painted. 

The  United  Kingdom  rather  like  these  anecdotes 
of  mine  about  America.  I  try  very  hard  to  give 
them  true  pictures,  but  it  is  difficult  to  present  any 
thing  like  a  unit  impression.  I  never  realized  before 
what  a  composite  thing  America  is.  I  have  been 
myself  in  every  state  and  territory  save  Florida  and 
Alaska,  and  if  I  should  tell  all  my  adventures  at  once, 
it  would  be  impossible  for  a  European  to  believe  that 
they  had  all  happened  under  one  flag.  What  is  quite 
possible  and  commonplace  in  the  South  could  never 
happen  in  Boston,  and  the  doings  at  Cambridge,  our 
modern  Athens,  God  bless  her  !  would  be  quite  incred 
ible  in  New  Mexico.  So  I  am  always  careful  to  tell 

43 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


in  just  what  part  of  America  my  adventures  befell. 
But  I  might  as  well  spare  myself  the  trouble,  as  far 
as  the  United  Kingdom  are  concerned,  for  their  igno 
rance  of  American  geography  is  so  profound  as  to  be 
delicious.  They  asked  me  the  other  day  where  New 
England  was.  Perhaps  they  took  it  for  a  suburb  of 
Chicago.  I  am  quite  resolved  at  Christmas  time  to 
give  them  a  wall  map  of  the  United  States,  if  I  don't 
yield  to  the  temptation  and  give  it  sooner. 

The  ignorance  of  the  United  Kingdom  about  Amer 
ican  literature  is  even  more  astonishing.  They  have 
never  read  Emerson,  imagine  it,  our  gentle  Emerson, 
who  is  read  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  with  such 
fervor.  And  they  don't  know  what  happened  at  Con 
cord.  The  first  time  I  went  to  Concord  I  was  minded 
to  go  barefooted,  it  seemed  to  me  such  holy  ground. 
And  when  I  came  home  I  had  to  tell  everybody  about 
my  visit,  even  a  small  boy  of  my  acquaintance,  for  I 
was  so  full  of  it.  With  the  small  boy,  I  began  by 
Asking  if  he  knew  what  Concord  was  noted  for.  "  Oh, 
yes,"  said  he.  "  Tell  me,"  I  answered,  wondering 
whether  he  would  say  Emerson  or  Hawthorne,  Thoreau 
or  the  Alcotts.  "  For  the  Concord  grape,"  said  he 
triumphantly,  and  I  suppose  he  wondered  why  I  looked 
so  crestfallen,  and  why  Charlotte  laughed  so  outra 
geously. 

One  would  hardly  think  that  Emerson  had  written 
in  the  same  language.  Even  in  the  very  heart  of 
Germany,  at  Weimar,  —  a  place,  by  the  way,  that 
strongly  reminds  me  of  Concord,  such  sweet  reverence 

44 


THE  UNITED  KINGDOM 


have  they  for  the  brave  spirits  that  have  been,  —  the 
hard-working  woman  who  kept  our  pension  knew 
better  about  our  literature  than  does  the  United  King 
dom  collectively.  She  had  read  Howells  and  Henry 
James  and  other  American  writers,  but  she  quite  won 
my  heart  by  saying :  "  Of  all  the  high  spirits  in  our 
books,  mein  Herr,  it  is  a  countryman  of  yours  that  I 
love  the  best.  His  name  was  Emerson." 

Equally  surprising  is  the  profound  ignorance  of  the 
United  Kingdom  about  the  simplest  facts  of  natural 
science.  I  wonder,  sometimes,  that  they  have  lived  so 
long  to  tell  the  tale.  The  other  afternoon,  for  ex 
ample,  England  told  me,  as  a  triumph  of  good  man 
agement,  that  the  preceding  night  she  had  shut  the 
damper  to  the  stove  so  as  to  throw  all  the  heat  into 
the  room.  This  is  the  favorite  French  method  of 
committing  suicide.  Only  the  fact  that  the  rooms  of 
the  Chateau  are  so  large,  and  the  damper  not  at  all  a 
close  fit,  saved  the  imperialist  cause  a  sturdy  cham 
pion. 

But  in  spite  of  their  ignorance  of  Emerson,  and 
their  imperialism,  there  is  an  undoubted  charm  about 
these  old  gentlewomen,  and  an  undeniable  culture. 
And  then  it  dawns  upon  me  at  times  that  their  igno 
rance  appears  so  profound,  because  it  is  an  ignorance 
of  the  things  that  I  happen  to  know.  I  discover  every 
day  what  a  vast  number  of  things  they  know  that  I 
don't.  They  quite  make  me  wish  that  I  had  read 
some  of  the  books  so  laboriously  written  by  my  good 
friend,  the  history  man.  Partly  because  of  the  genu« 

45 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


ine  friendship  that  a  longer  acquaintance  with  the 
United  Kingdom  brings  about,  and  partly  for  the  sake 
of  finding  out  how  the  very  intelligent  and  positive 
daughter  of  an  Indian  colonel  looks  at  life,  I  am  get 
ting  into  the  habit  of  prolonging  these  tea  drinkings 
until  dusk  on  the  afternoons  that  I  have  no  music  les 
son.  The  Chatelaine  herself  sometimes  joins  us,  and 
in  the  lengthening  shadows  we  have  talks  that  become 
to  me  increasingly  interesting.  The  Chatelaine  is 
much  better  informed  about  American  affairs  than 
are  the  United  Kingdom,  and  this  because  she  has 
so  many  American  friends,  and  also  because  the  people 
not  occupied  in  conquering  the  rest  of  the  world  are 
more  in  touch  with  current  movements.  To  a  certain 
class  of  ideas,  to  me  very  leavening  ideas,  England 
and  Ireland  are  absolutely  inaccessible.  They  are  as 
impenetrable  to  democracy  as  is  my  aristocratic  old 
aunt  Percyfield.  The  historic  sense  does  not  seem  to 
have  brought  them  any  prophetic  power.  But  does 
not  my  dear  Matthew  Arnold  say  that  the  English 
aristocracy  is  noted  for  its  high  spirit  and  its  inapti 
tude  for  ideas  ?  As  I  was  saying,  however,  it  is  amaz 
ing  how  thoroughly  you  can  disapprove  of  people's 
politics,  and  still  have  a  friendly  regard  for  the  people 
themselves.  It  is  the  same  way  at  home.  I  am  my 
self  very  hot  for  free  trade,  but  some  of  my  best 
friends  are  misguided  protectionists. 

Sometimes  Monsieur  and  Madame  du  Chene  join  us 
of  an  afternoon,  and  then  the  talk  is  almost  as  lively 
as  it  is  at  Charlotte's  Sunday  evening  salons.  And  I 

46 


THE   UNITED  KINGDOM 


have  learned  one  very  important  thing  from  these 
talks.  It  is  fear.  It  would  be  a  poor  lesson  to  learn 
of  man  or  woman  if  it  were  personal  fear.  That  is  a 
lesson,  please  God,  that  I  will  never  learn  of  any  one. 
But  I  mean  national  fear.  We  do  not  in  America 
enough  appreciate  our  superb  security.  The  sea  is 
the  best  garden  hedge  a  nation  can  have.  To  stretch 
from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  to  have  but  one 
neighbor  on  the  north  and  one  on  the  south,  both 
friendly  and  both  weaker  than  ourselves,  this  alone  is 
a  tremendous  boon.  It  will  be  a  shame  upon  us  if 
we  do  not  outstrip  all  the  nations  in  goodness  and  in 
prosperity,  for  we  of  ah1  the  nations  do  not  know  fear. 
The  Briton  owes  much  of  his  high  spirit  to  the  fact 
that  the  sea  has  been  his  frontier.  He  is  invinci 
ble  as  long  as  he  sticks  to  his  island.  As  long  as 
his  colonies  are  self -governed,  practically  independent 
members  of  a  great  Anglo-Saxon  confederation,  he 
may  repeat  his  pretty  story  about  the  sun's  never  set 
ting  on  the  lands  of  Great  Britain,  and  no  harm  come 
of  it.  For  my  part,  I  am  very  glad  that  the  sun  does 
set  once  a  day  on  America  and  rise  again :  it  gives  us 
a  chance  to  rest  and  do  a  better  day's  work  on  the 
morrow.  I  shall  send  this  toast  to  Charlotte  for  the 
family  dinner  at  Uplands,  on  Thanksgiving :  "  May 
the  stars  and  stripes  be  kissed  each  day  by  the  setting 
as  well  as  by  the  rising  sun.  May  the  greed  of  im 
perialism  never  take  hold  of  the  Great  Republic." 
Frederic  will  read  it  in  his  fine  barytone  voice,  and 
Charlotte  will  cry,  "  Hear  !  Hear  !  " 

47 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


My  brother  of  Great  Britain,  my  noble  Anglo-Saxon, 
lacks  no  bravery  as  long  as  he  is  himself.  He  becomes 
a  coward  only  when  he  becomes  a  conqueror.  It  is  his 
dependencies  that  make  him  shake  in  his  boots.  It  is 
India  and  Africa  that  keep  him  awake  of  nights. 

Here  on  the  Continent  there  is  universal  fear.  It 
was  worth  crossing  the  ocean  to  make  the  discovery. 
Without  this  key,  an  American  cannot  understand  the 
triple  and  quadruple  alliances,  the  jealously  watched 
balance  of  power,  the  cowardly  diplomacy,  the  pa 
ralysis  of  the  Powers  before  the  Sick  Man  of  Europe, 
the  constant  war  cloud  in  the  East.  It  is  like  a  ner 
vous  game  of  chess.  One  listens  always  for  the  cry 
of  "  check !  "  and  dreads  the  final  checkmate.  Shall 
America  join  this  family  party  of  fear  ?  I  pray  God 
not.  The  hope  of  the  world  is  not  here.  It  is  in 
America,  in  Canada,  in  Australia,  in  New  Zealand,  it 
is  in  any  country  where  men  are  devoting  themselves 
to  self -conquest,  to  the  perfecting  of  the  daily  life,  and 
have  thrown  over  once  for  all  the  dog-in-the-manger 
attitude  towards  events.  There  is  but  one  cure  for 
this  malady  of  fear,  this  malady  as  characteristic  of 
Europe  as  dyspepsia  is  of  America.  It  is  interna 
tionalism.  It  is  democracy.  We  Americans  come 
over  to  Europe  very  gayly  of  a  summer.  We  flit 
about  from  place  to  place,  much  struck  indeed  with 
the  superficial  aspect  of  things,  playing  as  ignorantly 
with  political  and  social  conditions  as  children  with 
loaded  firearms,  and  even  wishing  in  our  ignorance  to 
import  some  of  these  outworn  conditions  into  America. 

48 


THE   UNITED  KINGDOM 


It  is  a  picturesque  holiday  for  us.  But  it  behooves  us 
to  take  care.  There  are  grave  human  issues  at  stake. 
It  is  not  a  time  for  sentimentality.  Not  even  the 
bright  little  person  on  the  throne  of  the  Netherlands, 
or  the  beautiful  woman  at  Rome,  or  the  family  group 
at  Windsor,  or  the  picturesque  uniforms  of  the  Hohen- 
zollern,  or  the  pathetic  autocrat  at  St.  Petersburg  must 
blind  us  to  the  fact  that  these  all  belong  to  a  past  order 
of  things,  that  dynastic  aspiration  is  only  another  name 
for  colossal,  inhuman  selfishness.  It  was  this  that 
turned  the  first  Napoleon,  the  man  who  might  have 
been  the  deliverer  of  Europe,  into  a  monster  so  intol 
erable  that  he  had  to  be  quarantined  at  St.  Helena. 

Every  American  girl  who  catches  at  the  trinket  of 
a  European  title,  every  American  gentleman  who  suf 
fers  the  slightest  breach  in  the  sound  ramparts  of  his 
own  simple  democracy,  adds  another  link  in  the  chain 
of  fear,  and  is  traitor  to  the  country  of  Washington 
and  Lincoln,  Emerson  and  Whitman ;  worse  still,  they 
are  traitors  to  humanity  itself.  And  I  blame  the  men 
far  more  than  the  girls.  Even  in  this  age  of  the  new 
woman,  the  men  still  have  the  greater  experience,  and 
that  ought  to  make  them  the  stronger.  To  the  girls, 
be  it  remembered,  the  temptation  comes  sugar-coated 
with  the  semblance  of  love.  And  then,  as  Charlotte 
says,  we  men  of  the  Great  Republic  should  make  our 
selves  so  attractive  that  our  European  rivals  would 
have  no  chance  whatever. 

There  is  no  internationalism  possible  between  mon 
archies.  If  the  lion  and  the  lamb  lie  down  together, 

49 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


they  must  be  concentric.  Nor  is  there  between  im 
perialistic  republics,  nor  with  an  army-ridden  country 
like  France,  where  la  gloire,  like  the  measles,  may 
break  out  any  fine  day  when  the  sun  happens  to  shine 
upon  a  man  on  horseback.  Internationalism  is  only 
possible  between  self -governed,  self-respecting  people, 
that  is,  between  genuine  democracies.  And  my  daily 
prayer  for  America  is  that  she  may  be  such  a  demo 
cracy,  and  may  escape  the  black  plague  of  European 
fear.  We  have  now  such  command  of  the  forces  of 
Nature,  such  power  to  make  the  earth  fair,  that  it  is 
fear  only,  and  the  selfishness  born  of  fear,  that  ward 
off  the  millennium. 

When  I  was  a  little  boy,  and  heard  the  clergyman 
at  old  St.  David's  preach  about  the  terrors  of  the  day 
of  judgment,  and  how  it  would  come  as  a  thief  in  the 
night,  when  no  man  knoweth,  I  used  to  keep  the  mat 
ter  in  mind  as  long  as  my  boyish  memory  would  hold 
out,  for  I  had  the  droll  conceit  that  the  day  of  judg 
ment  could  not  fall  as  long  as  any  one  person  —  even 
a  little  boy  in  knickerbockers  —  was  thinking  about  it. 
I  have  long  since  given  up  this  grave  fight,  for  I  know 
now  that  the  day  of  judgment  comes  any  day  and 
every  day. 


50 


CHAPTER  HI 

MOONLIGHT 

I  HAVE  been  working  very  hard  to-day.  The  mood 
was  on.  I  got  out  of  bed  much  earlier  than  my  wont. 
I  wrote  almost  steadily  until  four  o'clock,  stopping 
only  for  my  meals.  England  noticed  my  abstraction 
and  asked  kindly  if  I  had  had  bad  news  from  home. 
Then  I  remembered  with  a  blush  that  I  had  not  even 
read  my  letters,  a  most  unusual  proceeding  for  me,  and 
one  of  the  letters  from  Charlotte,  too !  England 
laughed  when  she  saw  my  embarrassment.  "  Ah,"  she 
said,  "  you  literary  men  are  an  absent-minded  lot.  You 
are  as  bad  as  lovers." 

"  And  if,  Madame,"  said  I,  "  a  man  should  be 
both  ?  " 

"  You  would  be  insupportable,"  she  answered 
promptly,  and  with  that  I  took  myself  off. 

When  four  o'clock  came,  the  fire  had  somewhat 
spent  itself  and  I  knew  that  I  ought  to  be  getting  the 
fresh  air.  I  was  so  full  of  my  work,  however,  that  I 
wanted  no  company,  not  that  of  Coco,  nor  even  of  my 
wheel.  I  went  off  on  foot,  choosing  a  favorite  route 
of  mine  through  the  little  village  of  La  Capite,  and  on 
past  the  Tower  of  the  Egyptian  to  those  quiet  lanes 
on  the  south  slope  where  one  has  such  splendid  views 

51 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


of  the  Alps.  I  got  there  a  trifle  after  sunset  and 
what  I  saw  quite  drove  my  work  out  of  my  head,  and 
brought  me  back  at  last  to  the  present  moment. 

There  are  other  spots  in  Switzerland  where  one  has 
grander  and  more  extensive  views,  but  none,  I  think, 
more  beautiful  than  this.  Far  below  me,  there  was  a 
broad,  flat  valley,  unrolled  apparently  for  no  other 
reason  than  for  my  particular  delight.  The  gloaming 
already  covered  it,  as  with  a  filmy  gauze.  The  colors 
were  all  low-pitched  but  not  yet  extinguished.  Here 
and  there  a  green  field  made  a  subdued  high  light  and 
gave  the  sombre  plain  an  air  of  irrepressible  vitality. 
Opposite,  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley,  were  two 
tiers  of  gray-black  hills,  flat  walls  of  shade,  with  out 
lines  as  distinct  and  jagged  as  if  they  had  been  cut 
out  of  giant  pasteboard,  the  setting  of  some  more  than 
Wagnerian  opera.  Beyond  the  hills  there  lay  a  pur 
ple  cloud  that  mimicked  the  empty  space  that  stretches 
along  and  beyond  the  horizon.  But  above  the  cloud, 
unreal  in  its  isolation  and  its  transcendent  beauty,  rose 
the  solemn,  snowy  stillness  of  Mont  Blanc.  It  was 
in  the  sunlight,  in  the  light  that  for  the  rest  of  the 
world  had  already  faded,  and  stood  there  palpitating 
rose  and  gold.  The  effect  was  tremendous.  It  was 
like  a  vision  of  the  New  Jerusalem,  like  the  dazzle  of 
walls  of  jasper,  like  a  glimpse  of  another  world,  radi- 
ant,  perfect,  eternal.  It  laid  such  hold  upon  my 
spirit  that  I  stood  there,  rooted  to  the  spot,  drinking 
in  the  almost  supernatural  beauty  as  a  thirsty  man 
takes  water.  I  waited  until  the  last  touch  of  rosy 

62 


MOONLIGHT 


light  had  faded  from  the  mountain,  and  the  highest 
summit  in  Europe  had  passed  with  me  into  the  night. 
Then  I  walked  home  slowly,  as  a  man  does  who  has 
seen  a  vision. 

When  I  reached  the  Chateau,  the  moon  was  shining 
brightly,  and  here  in  my  great  bare  chamber  was 
making  broad  patches  of  light  upon  the  floor.  It  was 
a  dream  world  of  half  lights  and  shadows,  much  too 
alluring  to  be  disturbed.  I  could  not  light  my  lamp. 
I  drew  my  armchair  up  to  the  great  south  window, 
threw  myself  into  the  chair,  and  let  the  moonbeams 
carry  me  where  they  would.  They  seemed  disposed 
to  be  very  active.  It  is  a  solemn  thing  to  sit  in  the 
moonlight  quite  alone ;  more  solemn  in  a  great  bare 
room  like  this  than  in  the  open,  for  the  shadows  are 
deeper,  and  space  itself  more  unreal. 

Then  Margaret  came  and  sat  in  the  chair  opposite 
to  me. 

Margaret  is  a  woman  now,  in  the  very  bloom  of 
womanhood,  but  the  moonlight  is  a  tricksy  thing,  and 
in  its  own  effortless  way  changed  her  back  into  a  little 
girl  of  a  dozen  years.  She  looked  as  she  did  the  first 
day  ever  I  saw  her.  My  grandfather  Percyfield  had 
occasion  to  spend  a  winter  in  New  Orleans.  He  was, 
I  think,  interested  in  some  cotton  plantations.  My 
mother  and  Charlotte  and  I  went  with  him.  We  were 
little  accustomed  to  hotels  and  boarding  houses,  hav 
ing  always  lived  in  our  own  home,  either  at  Uplands,  or 
for  a  few  months  in  cold  weather  at  the  house  in  town, 
and  so  it  seemed  wise  and  natural  to  hire  a  furnished 

53 


JOHN  PEKCYFIELD 


house,  and  set  up  our  own  establishment,  even  though 
it  be  for  only  a  winter.  The  house  my  grandfather 
Percyfield  selected  was  a  large,  old-fashioned  mansion 
at  the  country  end  of  St.  Charles  Street.  My  grand 
father  Percyfield  was  a  very  dignified  man,  a  gentleman 
of  the  old  school,  and  would  have  looked  strangely  out 
of  place  in  a  new  house  with  any  show  of  pretension. 
But  in  those  days,  such  would  have  been  difficult  to 
find  in  New  Orleans,  for  the  city  was  still  suffering 
from  the  war  and  was  in  a  sad  state  of  poverty.  Our 
house  was  square  and  low,  with  a  gallery  running 
around  three  sides  of  it,  and  detached  buildings  in 
the  rear  for  the  kitchen  and  servants'  quarters.  The 
house  was  built  on  an  artificial  terrace,  and  from  the 
front  gallery  we  could  see  the  great  chocolate-colored 
river  flowing  on  to  the  Gulf  and  could  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  low,  swampy  shore  opposite.  The  lawn  sur 
rounding  the  house  was  firm  and  well  kept,  and  the 
orange  and  magnolia  trees  were  irreproachable  in  their 
glossy  orderliness.  The  house  itself  was  much  in  need 
of  paint,  and  there  were  unmistakable  signs  of  shabbi- 
ness  indoors,  telling  very  plainly  that  for  some  years 
past  there  had  been  little  spare  money  for  replenish- 
ings.  The  former  occupants  had  manifestly  been 
gentlefolk,  and  had  left  that  impress  upon  every  room 
in  the  house.  My  grandfather  Percyfield  had  hired 
the  estate  of  an  agent  in  the  city,  and  we  knew  no 
thing  of  the  owners,  not  even  their  names,  for  the 
agent,  to  my  grandfather  Percyfield's  surprise,  inserted 
his  own  name  in  the  lease,  and  intimated  not  dis- 

54 


MOONLIGHT 


courteously  that  it  would  be  acceptable  if  no  questions 
were  asked.  To  my  boyish  mind  this  little  mystery 
added  immensely  to  the  charm  of  the  old  house,  and 
from  the  first,  I  came  to  be  very  fond  of  it.  It  had 
no  name  that  we  knew  of,  and  so  my  mother  laugh 
ingly  christened  it  Hereford  Hall,  after  the  old  Eng 
lish  place  that  her  stanch  Puritan  forebears  came 
from.  It  was  probably  as  unlike  the  original  Here 
ford  Hall  as  two  houses  could  well  be,  but  we  all  fell 
into  the  way  of  using  the  name,  and  it  served  very 
well  to  distinguish  this  temporary  home  from  my 
grandfather  Percyfield's  place  in  Pennsylvania,  which 
has  been  known  as  Uplands  ever  since  the  time  of 
William  Penn.  My  grandfather  Marston's  home  was 
in  Massachusetts.  This  gained  me  the  nickname  of 
Yankee  among  the  more  hot-headed  little  rebels  of  my 
playfellows,  and  got  me  into  some  trouble  that  winter. 
The  little  people  had  never  surrendered,  and  though 
I  was  a  peaceable  enough  lad  myself,  I  was  as  keen 
an  Abolitionist  as  my  grandfather  Marston,  and  hav 
ing  always  been  accustomed  to  speaking  my  mind  very 
freely,  I  had  plenty  of  quarrels  on  my  hands  during 
my  first  two  or  three  weeks  at  New  Orleans.  After 
wards  when  we  got  to  know  one  another,  this  was  all 
forgotten,  and  I  never  had  warmer  friends  than  among 
those  same  little  rebels. 

There  was  a  small  cottage  next  to  Hereford  Hall, 
on  the  country  side,  a  very  small  place  indeed,  but 
withal  very  pretty,  for  it  was  half  buried  in  creeping 
vines  and  greenery  of  one  sort  and  another.  It  was 

65 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


very  neatly  kept,  too,  in  decided  contrast  to  some  of 
the  larger  and  less  tidy  places  on  the  opposite  side 
of  St.  Charles  Street.  A  few  mornings  after  our  estab 
lishment  at  the  Hall,  I  was  walking  up  and  down 
the  gallery  directly  after  breakfast.  Charlotte  was 
with  me.  We  both  had  a  child's  delight  in  the  great 
river.  It  took  us  some  days  to  get  over  our  disappoint 
ment  that  it  was  so  muddy,  but  when  my  grandfather 
Percyfield  explained  to  us  that  had  there  been  no  sedi 
ment  in  the  great  river,  there  had  been  no  New  Or 
leans,  or  even  Louisiana,  that  in  bygone  ages  the  river 
had  emptied  into  the  Gulf  away  up  in  Illinois,  we 
were  entirely  comforted  and  came  to  look  upon  the 
chocolate-colored  flood  as  a  giant  builder  sending  out 
long  arms  into  the  Gulf  and  adding  sugar  and  cotton 
plantations  by  the  hundred  acres.  I  have  noticed  that 
when  one  knows  the  world  chiefly  as  the  content  of  a 
geography  book,  it  gives  one  a  thrill  to  find  out  that 
it  is  real.  My  earliest  remembrance  of  New  Orleans 
is  the  tremendous  impression  it  made  upon  Charlotte 
and  me  to  find  the  Mississippi  a  reality.  This  child 
like  wonder  has  never  left  me,  though  I  have  since 
wandered  over  full  half  the  globe.  I  remember  say 
ing  to  Charlotte  the  first  time  we  were  in  Dresden, 
"  And  Ms  is  Dresden !  "  and  the  way  she  put  her  arm 
through  mine,  and  snuggled  up  to  me,  told  me  that 
she  felt  the  same  delighted  wonder. 

After  we  had  taken  a  number  of  turns  on  the  gal 
lery,  Charlotte  went  into  the  house,  and  I  trotted  up 
and  down  alone.  It  was  my  fourteenth  birthday,  I  re- 

56 


MOONLIGHT 


member,  and  I  felt  very  mannish  indeed.  I  was  still 
in  knickerbockers,  but  I  had  on  a  real  piccadilly  collar, 
and  was  proud  accordingly.  I  happened  to  glance 
over  at  the  little  cottage,  and  I  saw  something  there 
that  made  me  quite  forget  the  great  river,  my  birth 
day,  the  erect  collar,  and  in  fact  everything  else  that 
had  once  made  up  my  small  world.  The  prettiest  lit 
tle  girl  that  I  had  ever  seen  was  looking  through  a 
gap  in  the  hedge  that  separated  the  cottage  grounds 
from  ours.  She  was  looking  at  the  Hall,  a  little  wist 
fully  I  thought,  and  did  not  catch  sight  of  me  for  sev 
eral  moments.  When  she  did  see  me,  she  disappeared 
in  a  flash.  But  the  mischief  was  already  done.  It 
was  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight.  I  can  see  my  little 
lady  as  plainly  to-night  as  if  she  were  sitting  in  the 
chair  opposite  to  me  in  very  truth  instead  of  being 
there  only  in  my  fancy.  The  prettiness  of  her  face 
did  not  prevent  its  being  strong  She  had  rather 
prominent  cheek  bones,  and  a  pair  of  dark  brown 
eyes  that  I  found  afterwards  could  flash  fire  as  well 
as  look  wistful.  Her  hair  was  abundant  and  curly, 
and  of  a  very  light  chestnut  color.  In  the  sun  it 
looked  almost  yellow.  This  combination  of  dark  eyes 
and  light  hair  constituted  her  great  beauty.  She  was 
neither  blond  nor  brunette,  but  appeared  sometimes 
one  and  sometimes  the  other.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
plain  blue  frock  made  in  the  sailor  fashion.  I  would 
have  given  all  my  birthday  presents  to  have  her  re 
main  at  the  gap  in  the  hedge  for  even  two  minutes 
longer. 

67 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


You  must  not  think  that  I  was  a  sentimental  boy. 
I  was  imaginative  and  high-strung  and  all  that,  but 
not  in  the  least  bit  sentimental.  I  had  always  had 
Charlotte  and  her  little  friends  for  playfellows,  and 
was  quite  too  accustomed  to  having  girls  around  to 
think  about  them  one  way  or  the  other.  I  rather 
preferred  games  and  occasions  where  there  were  both 
boys  and  girls,  but  that  was  simply  because  it  was 
more  picturesque.  I  had  even  then  a  very  keen  sense 
of  color.  I  liked  the  girls'  bright  frocks  and  the 
varied  lights  that  one  sees  in  children's  long  hair. 
But  a  small  boy  in  kilts  with  a  very  bright  tie,  or  long 
curly  hair,  or  flaxen  locks  cut  in  the  Dutch  fashion,  or 
particularly  red  cheeks,  or  a  broad  sailor  collar  over 
a  baby  blue  jacket,  served  the  purpose  equally  well. 
And  I  never  cared  to  have  girls  on  my  walking  trips. 
In  the  first  place  they  could  not  go  so  far  or  so  fast, 
and  more  important  still  they  interfered  with  the 
swimming.  I  had  a  passion  for  the  water,  and  a  fash 
ion  of  slipping  out  of  my  clothes  and  into  the  nearest 
pool  or  stream,  that  makes  me  think  I  must  in  some 
previous  incarnation  have  been  a  primitive  person 
living  much  in  the  open  air,  —  I  hope  it  was  in  Greece 
in  the  time  of  Pericles.  Bayard  Taylor  used  to  say 
that  he  himself  had  once  been  a  pine-tree,  so  fond  was 
he  of  the  pines.  His  place  at  Cedarcroft  was  within 
driving  distance  of  Uplands,  and  my  grandfather 
Percyfield  used  often  to  take  Charlotte  and  me  over 
there  to  see  him.  I  don't  know  that  I  was  ever  a 
tree,  but  if  so  it  must  have  been  one  with  very  long 

58 


MOONLIGHT 


limbs,  perhaps  a  Lombardy  poplar,  tall  and  straight 
and  slender. 

My  grandfather  Percyfield  used  to  encourage  this 
open  air  bathing,  and  often  went  out  of  his  way  to 
give  me  an  extra  chance,  for  he  thought  it  made  me 
sturdy ;  he  would  rather  have  had  me  die  than  turn 
out  a  weakling.  But  he  used  to  laugh  and  tell  me 
that  if  ever  I  got  to  be  a  painter  it  would  certainly  be 
in  aquarelle.  This  was  the  nearest  approach  to  a  pun 
that  I  ever  knew  him  to  get,  except  on  one  memorable 
occasion  when  it  was  by  accident. 

From  all  this  you  can  see  that  I  was  just  a  healthy, 
well-bred  boy,  and  not  at  all  given  to  the  sentimental. 
And  yet  this  love  affair  of  mine,  the  first  and  only 
one  that  I  have  ever  had,  was  the  most  real  thing  that 
ever  came  into  my  life.  It  did  not  progress  very 
rapidly,  and  was  anything  but  smooth.  I  was  rather 
a  good-looking  boy,  though  I  have  since  grown  to  be 
a  homely  man.  But  I  was  counted  a  Yankee,  and 
Margaret  was  a  hot  little  rebel.  She  had  another 
cause  for  disliking  all  of  us,  but  that  I  did  not  dis 
cover  until  afterwards.  I  was  not  a  secretive  lad,  and 
having  fallen  suddenly  in  love,  I  announced  it  with  as 
much  frankness  as  I  should  have  done  any  other  per 
sonal  discovery.  My  mother  and  Charlotte  and  my 
grandfather  Percyfield  showed  the  utmost  good  feel 
ing  about  it,  and  even  took  the  matter  seriously,  which, 
considering  that  I  was  just  fourteen,  was  an  unusual 
kindness. 

I  have  had  many  things  to  be  thankful  for  in  my 
59 


JOHN  PEKCYFIELD 


life,  but  above  everything  else  that  iny  people  were 
well  bred. 

I  had  plenty  of  time  that  winter  for  my  love  affair, 
for  I  did  not  go  to  school,  but  I  rather  suspect  that 
in  either  case  the  result  would  have  been  the  same. 
My  grandfather  Percyfield  was  a  very  original  man, 
and  seldom  allowed  me  to  go  to  school.  He  held  that 
association  with  my  mother  and  himself,  and  with  the 
persons  who  had  the  entree  of  our  house,  would  do 
more  to  educate  me  than  the  daily  contact  with  per 
sons  of  less  quality.  He  was  himself  a  born  knight, 
and  I  never  marveled  that  my  grandmother  should 
^ave  fallen  in  love  with  him.  With  his  ideas  of 
courtesy,  the  rising  generation  seemed  to  him  unman 
nerly  and  bourgeois.  .  It  was  his  firm  conviction  that 
herding  boys  together  in  school  made  them  dull  and 
commonplace,  und  what  was  even  worse,  less  reverent 
and  knightly.  So  he  preferred  my  swimming  and  my 
horseback  riding  and  my  desultory  reading,  even  my 
love-making,  to  anything  the  schoolmasters  could  have 
given  me.  So  little  formal  was  my  education  that  I 
fancied  myself  growing  up  in  great  ignorance,  and 
sometimes  even  envied  what  I  took  to  be  the  larger 
knowledge  of  other  boys.  But  I  see  now  that  my 
grandfather  Percyfield  was  in  reality  a  very  subtle 
teacher,  and  that  my  education  covered  the  whole 
twenty-four  hours  in  place  of  the  customary  school 
session.  My  mother  taught  me  French,  and  gave  me 
her  own  love  of  poetry  and  color.  My  grandfather 
Percyfield  had  a  great  appreciation  of  French,  though 

GO 


MOONLIGHT 


he  could  not  speak  a  word  of  it  himself,  but  he  had 
keen  literary  instincts,  and  he  was  greatly  impressed 
with  the  splendid  directness  of  those  books  he  had  read 
which  were  translated  from  the  French.  He  really 
directed  my  reading,  though  he  did  it  so  skillfully  that 
at  the  time  I  never  knew  it.  But  the  very  heart  of 
his  creed  was  that  at  all  hazards  a  man  should  be 
genuine.  He  tried  to  form  my  taste  in  literary  mat 
ters,  but  he  always  allowed  me  to  read  what  I  wanted. 
I  only  remember  one  book  that  he  forbade  my  read 
ing,  and  that  was  "  The  Children  of  the  Abbey."  I 
have  often  wondered  why  he  objected  to  it,  but  though 
I  have  run  across  the  book  several  times  in  different 
parts  of  the  world,  I  have  never  opened  it.  The  old 
prohibition  seems  as  much  in  force  now  as  when  I  was 
a  boy. 

My  grandfather  Percyfield  encouraged  me  to  culti 
vate  a  great  many  interests,  and  went  to  any  amount 
of  expense  and  trouble  in  furthering  them.  I  was 
very  fond  of  him,  and,  at  the  time,  I  thought  he  did  all 
this  solely  for  my  pleasure.  And,  indeed,  this  was 
so,  but  it  was  for  a  deeper  pleasure  than  I  recognized. 
It  was  his  way  of  educating  me.  He  denied  me  but 
one  thing,  and  that  was  music.  He  took  me  when  I 
was  a  very  small  boy  to  hear  Ole  Bull  play  the  violin, 
and  occasionally  we  went  to  symphony  concerts,  and 
to  the  opera,  but  he  would  not  allow  me  to  be  taught 
either  the  violin  or  the  piano.  My  mother  played  the 
piano  beautifully,  and  I  think  that  my  grandfather 
Percyfield  knew  that,  with  my  dreamy  temperament, 

61 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


I  should  grow  to  be  passionately  fond  of  music,  and  he 
feared  that  excessive  practicing  might  injure  my  health. 
The  sketching  took  me  out  of  doors,  so  he  encouraged 
that,  and  three  times  a  week  I  went  to  a  shabby  little 
studio  on  Canal  Street,  and  had  lessons  in  drawing 
from  an  old  French  artist. 

In  looking  back  upon  the  educational  methods  of 
my  grandfather  Percyfield,  I  feel  that  I  am  not  enough 
of  a  pedagogue  to  pass  judgment  on  them.  They 
might  not  work  in  other  families  where  there  was 
not  the  same  beautiful,  cultivated  mother,  the  same 
knightly  grandfather,  and  the  same  charming  little 
sister.  But  this  I  know,  that  I  never  think  of  my 
grandfather  Percyfield  without  a  great  rush  of  affec 
tion  and  gratitude.  He  put  me  in  touch  with  life  at 
first  hand.  He  taught  me  reverence  and  manly  cour 
tesy.  He  filled  my  days  with  wholesome  interests, 
and  with  tastes  that  have  flourished  with  the  years, 
and  have  made  of  life  a  constantly  renewed  delight. 
Now  that  I  am  a  man,  and  getting  on  towards  thirty, 
I  see  that  no  school  or  master,  whatever  else  they 
might  have  taught  me,  could  have  done  so  much  as 
this.  I  can  look  forward  to  old  age  without  dread, 
and  can  anticipate  immortality  with  joy,  for  it  will 
take  eternity  to  do  all  the  beautiful  things  that  I  have 
in  mind  to  do. 

In  all  of  his  plans,  my  grandfather  Percyfield  was 
more  than  seconded  by  my  mother,  and  owed  much  of 
his  success  in  carrying  them  out  to  her  goodness  and 
ability.  But  I  cannot  yet  bring  myself  to  speak  of 


MOONLIGHT 


my  mother,  for  her  loss  has  been  the  one  tragedy  in 
an  otherwise  sunny  life. 

Margaret  was  only  twelve  that  winter,  but  she 
already  went  to  school.  Her  grandfather  and  her 
uncle  had  both  been  killed  in  battle,  fighting  for  the 
Confederacy,  and  her  own  father,  though  he  survived 
the  war  by  several  years,  died  eventually  from  the 
effects  of  its  exposures  and  hardships.  He  had  been 
a  mere  boy  when  he  enlisted,  and  was  still  a  young 
man  when  he  died.  Margaret  had  never  seen  her 
father,  and  worshiped  his  memory  as  small  Catholics 
worship  the  saints.  Only  she  and  her  mother  were 
left,  and  Aunt  Viney,  a  colored  woman,  who  had  been 
Mrs.  Ravenel's  slave,  and  who  refused  to  leave  her 
when  the  family  fortunes  fell  low.  Aunt  Viney  always 
called  Mrs.  Ravenel  "Mis'  Lucy,"  and  never  ad 
dressed  my  little  lady  other  than  as  "  Miss  Marg'ret." 
Aunt  Viney  was  my  friend  from  the  very  first.  She 
had  my  grandfather  Percyfield's  ideas  of  quality,  and 
liked  what  she  was  pleased  to  call  my  pretty  manners. 
How  she  ever  stomached  my  being  a  Yankee  I  never 
knew.  She  probably  put  it  down  as  a  disease  which 
I  might  in  time  outgrow. 

It  was  a  trial  to  have  Margaret  trot  off  to  school 
five  days  in  the  week,  but  with  all  their  other  troubles 
I  suppose  it  was  too  much  to  expect  Mrs.  Ravenel  to 
teach  her  at  home.  Besides  their  graver  human  losses, 
the  war  had  involved  nearly  all  of  their  fortune,  and 
at  that  time  they  were  very  poor.  It  is  no  wonder 
that  Margaret  was  a  rebel.  The  blue  sailor  frock  did 

63 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


service  all  winter,  and,  in  my  fancy,  it  is  the  one  she 
always  wears.  I  had  innocently  supposed  that  she 
wore  it  so  much  because  she  looked  so  beautiful  in  it, 
but  Charlotte  told  me  one  day,  with  a  look  of  real 
surprise  and  distress  in  her  own  blue  eyes,  that  it  was 
because  Margaret  had  no  other.  We  could  not  at  all 
understand  how  this  came  to  be,  for  at  that  time  we 
knew  as  little  about  social  economy  as  Marie  Antoi 
nette  herself.  My  grandfather  Percyfield  supplied  all 
our  own  wants  most  liberally,  but  he  never  allowed  us 
to  have  any  money,  for  he  held  that  children  grow  up 
with  a  far  more  generous  spirit  if  they  give  and  receive 
without  any  thought  of  exchange.  Had  I  ever  offered 
to  render  him  any  little  service  for  pay,  he  would  have 
scorned  me  as  a  miserable  little  trader,  even  were  the 
coin  a  box  of  sugar-plums.  Fortunately  I  never  did, 
for  he  had  trained  me  too  well  for  that.  In  my  boy 
ish  way,  I  was  as  punctilious  as  he. 

The  Ravenels  were  as  gently  bred  as  the  Percyfields, 
and,  under  pressure  of  their  poverty,  held  their  heads 
even  a  little  bit  higher.  This  made  them  very  hard 
to  get  acquainted  with,  and,  for  a  time,  not  even  the 
combined  sagacity  of  Hereford  Hall  succeeded  in 
breaking  the  ice.  I  might  prance  up  and  down  the 
gallery  as  much  as  I  pleased,  no  face  appeared  at  the 
gap  in  the  hedge.  It  was,  of  course,  impossible  for  a 
well-bred  boy  deliberately  to  watch  the  cottage,  but 
when,  in  the  course  of  my  gallery  promenades,  I  had 
to  face  it,  it  was  at  least  permissible  not  to  turn  my 
head  away.  In  this  manner,  I  got  frequent  glimpses 

64 


MOONLIGHT 


of  Margaret,  but  the  hedge  was  so  high  that  it  was 
seldom  of  her  face.  At  home  she  never  wore  a  hat, 
and  it  was  usually  the  glint  of  her  hair,  as  she  flashed 
in  and  out  of  the  sunshine,  that  caught  my  eye.  I 
was  in  hopes  that  Mrs.  Ravenel  would  call  on  my 
mother,  but  that  did  not  happen,  at  least  not  until 
several  weeks  afterwards.  It  was  to  an  accident  that 
I  finally  owed  an  acquaintance  with  my  lady.  I  had 
been  out  on  one  of  my  long  walks,  and  on  the  way 
home  had  fallen  in  with  two  little  boys,  who  turned 
out  to  be  very  hot-blooded  little  Southerners.  Every 
thing  went  very  well,  however,  until  we  got  almost  to 
the  Hall.  It  was  my  own  fault,  I  am  sure,  for  I  made 
some  foolish  and  unnecessary  remark  about  slavery, 
and  then,  quite  before  we  knew  exactly  what  had  hap 
pened,  my  two  little  hot-bloods  and  I  were  in  the 
midst  of  an  energetic  fight.  No  great  mischief  was 
done,  however,  for  it  was  called  off  almost  immediately 
by  a  child's  imperious  voice. 

"  Kandolph !  Peyton  !  Shame  on  you !  Since  when 
has  it  been  the  custom  for  Southern  gentlemen  to  fight 
two  to  one  ?  " 

The  voice  was  absolutely  withering  in  its  scorn,  and 
made  us  all  drop  our  hands  instantly.  It  was  Mar 
garet.  She  happened  to  be  on  her  way  from  school. 
I  did  not  even  know  her  name,  but  I  had  my  wits 
about  me  and  was  quite  resolved  to  make  the  most  of 
my  opportunity.  I  bowed  in  a  manner  that  was  a 
very  good  imitation,  I  think,  of  the  way  the  heroes  in 
the  Waverley  novels  bowed,  and  said,  with  the  air  of 

65 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


the  grand  but  contrite  gentleman,  "  I  am  very  sorry. 
It  was  all  my  fault.    Please  don't  blame  your  friends." 

The  boys  were  pleased  to  consider  this  very  hand 
some  behavior,  though  indeed  it  was  but  the  truth, 
and  were  profuse  in  their  denials  and  apologies.  I 
was  afraid  that  in  this  general  flood  of  amiability 
Margaret  might  escape,  so  I  turned  to  her  and  said,  — 

"  It  seems  that  we  were  all  to  blame,  and  that  you 
have  been  the  good  angel  to  the  three  of  us." 

.  I  thought  this  a  very  pretty  speech  and  I  could 
see  that  it  made  some  impression.  Margaret  nodded 
her  head  in  a  comical  little  way  that  was  intended  to 
be  gracious,  and  again  I  was  afraid  to  lose  her,  so  I 
hurried  on,  — 

"  I  should  like  to  know  such  generous  enemies.  I 
am  Master  John  Percyfield,  of  Hereford  Hall." 

Margaret  stepped  forward  with  the  air  of  a  lady 
quite  in  society,  and  named  the  boys  in  her  clear, 
imperious  voice,  "  This  is  Master  Randolph  Beaure- 
gard,  of  Bellevue  Plantation,  and  this  is  his  brother, 
Master  Peyton  Beauregard." 

The  boys  shook  hands  with  me  very  heartily,  for 
they  were  as  gentlemanly  little  fellows  as  I  have  ever 
seen.  But  again  Margaret  was  escaping,  and  I  had 
to  be  very  quick  in  asking  to  be  presented  to  her. 
Peyton  happened  to  be  in  the  better  position,  and  said 
courteously,  "  Miss  Margaret  Ravenel." 

After  that  we  all  came  down  from  our  stilted  lan 
guage,  and  were  four  friendly  children  together.  And 
indeed  it  was  well,  for  my  rhetorical  high-horse  would 

G6 


MOONLIGHT 


soon  have  thrown  me,  and  the  Beauregard  boys, 
though  they  went  to  school,  could  not,  I  think,  have 
outridden  me.  I  invited  the  three  children  to  come 
to  the  Hall  and  play  with  Charlotte  and  me.  Mar 
garet  had  first  to  ask  her  mother's  permission,  and  I, 
as  self-appointed  knight,  must  needs  carry  the  satchel 
of  schoolbooks  and  await  the  answer.  Mrs.  Ravenel 
was  not  at  home,  but  Aunt  Viney  bade  Margaret  go. 
This  in  itself  was  a  bit  of  good  fortune,  for  I  rather 
fancy  that  Mrs.  Ravenel  would  have  found  some  ex 
cuse  for  withholding  her  permission. 

It  was  in  those  prehistoric  days,  you  must  remem 
ber,  before  lawn  tennis  came  into  vogue  at  New  Or 
leans,  when  the  children  still  played  croquet.  Peyton 
obligingly  said  that  he  would  watch  the  game,  so  that 
Charlotte  and  Randolph  might  play  against  Margaret 
and  me.  I  had  considerable  skill  in  putting  the  balls 
where  I  wanted  them  to  go,  and  naturally  I  played 
my  very  prettiest.  Charlotte  had  kindly  arranged  the 
matter  of  partners,  but  she  did  not  by  any  means  give 
us  the  game.  She  was  a  bit  of  a  coquette,  and  had  no 
willingness  to  appear  less  than  her  best  in  the  eyes  of 
either  Randolph  or  Peyton.  Then  my  mother  came 
out  on  the  lawn,  and  had  Susan  fetch  us  lemonade 
and  cakes.  I  was  in  the  seventh  heaven,  for  there  is 
nothing  like  a  hotly  contested  game  to  make  people 
feel  very  chummy,  and  Margaret  and  I  having  been 
both  partners  and  victors,  were  by  that  time  fast 
friends. 

Our  little  party  was  presently  interrupted  by  a 
67 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


prolonged  musical  whistle,  which  meant,  "  Margaret, 
come  home."  Margaret  answered  in  a  higher  key, 
with  a  pretty  little  aria,  which  meant,  "  Yes,  mother ;  I 
am  coming."  Mrs.  Ravenel  was  the  first  person  that 
I  ever  met  who  could  really  whistle  beautifully.  She 
used  often  to  accompany  herself  on  the  piano  in  this 
way,  to  the  great  delight  of  Charlotte  and  myself. 
Margaret  had  the  same  trick,  but  she  was  very  apt  to 
get  an  octave  higher. 

After  that  first  afternoon,  Charlotte  and  I  were  in 
clover.  With  the  exception  of  the  one  deep  sorrow, 
we  have  both  had  very  sunny  lives,  and  have  been 
more  than  ordinarily  happy,  but  that  winter  at  New 
Orleans  stands  out,  I  think,  for  both  of  us  as  the 
very  brightest  time  of  all.  We  had  both  my  mother 
and  my  grandfather  Percyfield,  and  then  Margaret 
and  Randolph  and  Peyton  almost  lived  at  the  Hall. 
Randolph  constituted  himself  the  special  knight  of 
Charlotte,  and  I  had  Margaret.  Peyton  was  one  of 
those  dreamy  boys  who  seemed  to  need  no  special 
comradeship.  He  loved  us  all  with  the  impulsive 
ardor  of  a  child.  In  some  of  his  ways  he  was  almost 
girlish.  He  would  come  up  and  put  his  arms  around 
me,  just  as  my  mother  might  have  done,  and  kiss  me 
two  or  three  times  at  once.  I  should  have  resented 
this  in  Randolph,  but  with  Peyton  I  could  never  be 
anything  but  pleased.  He  had  sudden  gusts  of  passion, 
but  they  were  like  April  showers,  and  soon  over.  I 
never  knew  a  child  who  was  so  completely  idolized  by 
other  children  as  Peyton  was.  He  was  a  strange  little 


MOONLIGHT 


being,  who  seemed  to  us  all  as  something  rather  finer 
than  we  could  ever  hope  to  be. 

As  spring  came  on,  we  used  often  to  go  out  to  the 
plantation  of  the  Beauregard  family  at  Bellevue.  We 
had  rare  sport  racing  over  the  fields,  and  playing  in 
the  half  deserted  slave  quarters,  or  in  the  great  sugar 
houses.  But  during  the  winter,  if  one  may  use  so 
severe  a  term  for  anything  so  mild,  Hereford  Hall  was 
the  acknowledged  headquarters.  Charlotte  and  I,  not 
being  at  school,  had  more  time  to  arrange  our  inno 
cent  little  fetes,  and  Charlotte  is  a  born  hostess.  Then 
we  had  both  my  mother  and  my  grandfather  Percy- 
field  to  help  us  in  all  our  plans,  and  this  they  did 
without  reservation,  for  they  enjoyed  seeing  us  happy, 
and  they  took  themselves  a  personal  pleasure  in  genu 
ine  gayety.  Night  after  night  my  mother  would  play 
for  us  on  the  old  square  piano  that  formed  a  part  of 
the  furniture  of  our  half  shabby  drawing-room,  and 
the  Lee  children,  and  the  younger  Beaumonts,  and 
the  Masons,  and  the  Tilghman  girls,  and  the  Magru- 
ders  would  come  in,  and  with  our  pentagon,  as  Ran 
dolph  called  our  smaller  and  more  intimate  circle,  we 
had  enough  for  two  sets  for  the  lancers  or  a  cotillion. 
When  there  were  not  enough  for  this,  we  made  one 
set  with  double  sides,  and  my  mother,  who  was  a 
skillful  musician,  always  made  the  music  hold  out  until 
we  had  finished  the  grand  chain,  or  accomplished  the 
requisite  amount  of  visiting  to  neighboring  couples. 

My  grandfather  Percyfield  was  always  present.  He 
invariably  dressed  for  dinner,  being  in  all  these  little 

69 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


matters  more  particular,  I  am  afraid,  than  his  grand 
son.  He  made  a  dignified  figure  with  his  old-fashioned 
stock  and  quaint  dinner  coat.  Occasionally  Mrs. 
Ravenel  came  in,  and  sometimes  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mason, 
or  the  parents  of  some  of  the  other  children.  We 
kept  open  house  that  winter,  as  we  always  did  at 
Uplands.  My  grandfather  Percyfield  welcomed  every 
body  with  sincere  and  old-time  hospitality  when  they 
had  once  passed  his  careful  initial  scrutiny.  We,  on 
our  part,  were  soon  received  in  all  the  best  houses,  a 
result  which  I  see  now,  in  looking  back  upon  it,  was 
due  entirely  to  the  gentle  courtesy  and  tact  of  my 
beautiful  mother  and  my  wise  old  grandfather,  and 
not  at  all  to  our  money.  Indeed,  the  money  would 
have  been  a  serious  obstacle  had  it  been  less  delicately 
administered,  for  I  have  never  found,  even  in  Europe, 
a  pride  equal  to  that  of  these  reduced  first  families  of 
New  Orleans.  I  am  glad  to  think  that  they  have 
since  met  with  better  fortune. 

At  these  delightful  little  parties,  Margaret  was 
always  my  chosen  partner.  In  fact,  we  got  into  the 
habit,  all  of  us,  of  dancing  with  the  same  girl  or  boy, 
a  custom  which  added  to  our  pleasure,  if  not  to  our 
skill  in  dancing. 

Susan  and  the  other  colored  people  stationed  them 
selves  in  the  hall,  and  watched  the  dancing  with  the 
greatest  delight.  Aunt  Viney  often  joined  them,  but 
never  stopped  long  unless  "  Mis'  Lucy  "  were  in  the 
drawing-room.  Her  devotion  to  Mrs.  Ravenel  and 
Margaret  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things  I  saw 

70 


MOONLIGHT 


in  New  Orleans,  and  when  I  came  to  be  included  in 
the  affection  of  this  rare  old  colored  woman,  I  felt  as 
honored  as  if  an  empress  had  taken  notice  of  me. 

The  refreshments  were  always  very  light,  usually 
lemonade  and  the  simplest  sort  of  cake ;  or,  on  special 
occasions,  ice-cream  with  some  home-made  sponge 
cake.  Susan  only  brought  the  goodies  to  the  table  in 
the  hall.  Young  as  we  were,  my  grandfather  Percy- 
field  always  had  us  boys  do  the  serving,  for  he  held 
that  this,  too,  was  an  accomplishment.  He  was  him 
self  very  dexterous  with  his  hands,  and  took  no  little 
pride  in  his  salad  dressings  and  simple  feats  of  cook 
ery.  At  Uplands  we  always  had  scallops  for  our 
Sunday  morning  breakfast  during  the  season,  and  rny 
grandfather  Percyfield  always  cooked  them  himself, 
using  an  old  silver  chafing-dish  that  Pompey  deposited 
with  much  ceremony  on  a  small  table  at  the  left  of 
my  grandfather  Percyfield's  armchair.  I  think  that 
this  was  the  one  thing  that  Pompey  did  not  approve 
of  in  my  grandfather  Percyfield.  Otherwise  he  quite 
idolized  him,  but  this  skill  in  cookery  he  regarded  as  a 
weakness  in  the  quality,  and  took  no  pains  to  conceal 
his  disapproval.  Pompey  had  much  the  same  feeling 
about  us  boys  when  we  handed  around  the  refresh 
ments.  When  his  resentment  got  too  much  for  him 
he  would  suddenly  disappear  from  the  hall,  and,  retir 
ing  to  the  servants'  quarters,  would  pick  the  banjo 
most  viciously.  Aunt  Viney  took  a  different  view  of 
the  case.  She  was  quite  as  aristocratic  in  her  views 
of  life  as  ever  Pompey  was,  but  she  had  a  sharp  eye, 

71 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


this  old  woman  had,  and  she  preferred  the  little  Low 
that  Peyton  or  I  made,  when  we  presented  a  glas*  of 
lemonade  or  a  plate  of  ice-cream  to  her  "  Mis'  Lucy," 
to  the  most  skillful  genuflexions  of  which  Pompey  was 
capable.  She  often  rewarded  me  with  open  commen 
dation  when  I  came  back  for  a  plate  of  cake,  "  Yo' 
done  thet  beautiful,  honey,  fo'  shuh." 

At  nine  o'clock  our  little  parties  broke  up.  My 
grandfather  Percyfield  was  inexorable  on  this  point, 
and  when  we  coaxed  him  for  just  one  more  reel  or 
cotillion,  he  always  told  us  that  we  had  to  get  all  of 
our  beauty  sleep  before  twelve  o'clock.  I  think  he 
was  sincere  in  his  regard  for  our  good  looks.  It  was 
a  part  of  his  creed  that  men  should  be  strong  and 
women  should  be  beautiful.  I  have  often  thought 
how  splendidly  he  and  my  mother  illustrated  this 
creed,  for  they  compared  well  with  the  best  that  New 
Orleans  had  to  offer. 

These  little  dances  came  once  a  week,  and  usually 
of  a  Friday  night,  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  the  other 
children's  school-going  and  lessons.  Randolph  and 
Peyton  always  stopped  at  the  Hall  overnight.  As 
we  liked  to  sleep  in  the  same  room,  my  mother  gave 
me  the  large  front  chamber  that  had  evidently  been 
meant  for  guests,  and  added  an  extra  little  bed  so  that 
it  would  accommodate  the  three  of  us.  Randolph 
slept  in  the  single  bed,  and  Peyton  and  I  shared  the 
old-fashioned  four-poster.  We  named  the  four  posts 
after  the  four  evangelists,  getting  the  idea,  I  suppose, 
from  the  child's  verse,  — 

72 


MOONLIGHT 


"Matthew,  Mark,  Luke,  and  John, 
Bless  this  bed  that  I  lie  on." 

Being  born  aristocrats,  both  of  us,  we  made  Matthew 
and  Mark  take  the  two  posts  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
and  gave  Luke  and  John  the  better  places  at  the  head. 
As  we  went  around  in  order,  my  part  of  the  bed  was 
between  John  and  Matthew,  and  Peyton's  lay  between 
Luke  and  Mark.  Usually,  however,  we  did  not  ob 
serve  any  boundaries,  but  slept  with  our  arms  around 
each  other. 

I  had  had  a  little  brother  once,  younger  than  myself, 
but  he  had  died.  It  seemed  to  me  that  Peyton  came 
to  take  his  place.  Peyton  was  a  little  younger  than 
I,  and,  as  I  have  said,  a  singularly  lovable  child.  As 
we  were  both  of  us  as  imaginative  small  boys  as  you 
could  well  find,  we  acted  out  the  role  so  thoroughly 
that  we  almost  came  to  believe  that  we  were  brothers. 
But  this  introduced  a  difficulty  that  at  first  seemed 
almost  insurmountable.  I  always  thought  of  Morris 
as  a  little  boy  angel,  and  to  me  he  had  a  very  real  ex 
istence.  I  prayed  for  him  every  night,  just  as  I  did 
for  the  other  members  of  my  family.  I  was  bothered 
to  see  how  Morris  could  be  in  heaven,  and  at  the  same 
time  in  my  own  four-posted  bed. 

It  was  Peyton  who  saw  the  way  out.  He  suggested 
that  as  he  slept  with  me,  as  a  rule,  only  once  a  week,  he 
was  my  angel-brother  on  a  visit.  Nothing  could  have 
suited  my  lively  imagination  better.  As  soon  as  we  got 
into  bed,  he  was  Peyton  no  longer,  but  Morris.  The 
fiction  of  the  four  evangelists  helped  out  the  illusion. 

73 


JOHN  PEECYFIELD 


But  after  that,  I  made  Peyton  sleep  without  any 
nightgown,  for  in  all  the  pictures  of  boy  angels  I  had 
seen,  they  never  wore  any  clothing.  As  we  had  plenty 
of  good  warm  coverings,  I  think  that  Peyton  caught 
no  colds  as  the  result  of  my  realism.  He  was,  indeed, 
the  picture  of  an  angel.  He  was  a  very  fair  child, 
and  he  had  the  most  beautiful  little  body  that  I  have 
ever  seen.  When  I  put  my  arms  around  him,  I  think 
that  even  a  less  vivid  fancy  than  mine  could  have  mis 
taken  him  for  a  being  from  beyond  the  gates  of 
jasper. 

Nor  did  the  more  difficult  part  of  our  drama  appall 
us  —  I  mean  the  text.  Being  an  angel,  Peyton  had 
to  talk  like  one.  He  had  to  tell  me  all  about  the  New 
Jerusalem,  and  whether  there  was  any  swimming  there, 
and  what  he  and  the  other  boy  angels  did  to  amuse 
themselves.  While  I,  being  still  on  earth,  had  to  tell 
Peyton  all  the  good  things  I  could  think  of,  that  I 
knew  the  angels  would  be  glad  to  hear  about;  and 
also  all  the  dreadful  things  that  I  had  ever  seen  or 
read  about,  so  that  the  angels  could  come  down  and 
put  an  end  to  them.  This  curious  fiction  was  kept 
up  all  winter  without  the  slightest  loss  of  interest 
on  the  part  of  either  earth  or  heaven,  and  as  it  was 
renewed  every  week,  it  grew  to  be  a  continued  story 
of  astonishing  length  and  detail. 

Randolph  was  much  less  imaginative  than  we,  and  if 
we  talked  too  loud,  he  would  call  out  in  a  sleepy  way, 
"  Oh,  keep  still  over  there,  can't  you."  Then  Peyton 
and  I  would  snuggle  down  very  quietly  until  we  heard 

74 


MOONLIGHT 


Randolph's  regular  breathing  and  knew  that  he  was 
asleep.  Once  Peyton  fell  asleep  while  we  were  wait 
ing,  and  I  think  he  must  have  been  an  angel,  for  I 
remember  that  he  was  not  at  all  vexed  when  I  woke 
him  up  and  asked  him  to  tell  me  what  happened 
next. 

On  these  nights  we  completely  lost  our  beauty 
sleep,  —  perhaps  that  is  the  reason  I  grew  up  to  be 
homely,  —  and  occasionally,  when  there  was  something 
particular  going  on  in  the  New  Jerusalem,  we  did  not 
get  to  sleep  until  one.  But  it  made  less  difference 
than  it  might  have  done,  for  on  Saturday  morning  we 
were  never  called,  but  were  allowed  to  have  our  sleep 
quite  out.  Indeed,  my  grandfather  Percy  field  would 
never  allow  either  Charlotte  or  me  to  be  wakened  in 
the  morning  unless  we  were  going  on  a  journey,  and 
it  was  absolutely  necessary.  He  had  an  almost  reli 
gious  respect  for  sleep,  as  he  had  for  all  Nature's 
processes,  and  never  willingly  interrupted  it.  Often 
Peyton  and  I  woke  up  to  find  the  bright  sun  shining 
in  through  the  cracks  in  the  Venetian  blinds,  and 
Randolph  gone  for  two  or  three  hours.  Morris  never 
outlived  the  night.  In  the  morning,  it  was  always 
Peyton  that  I  had  my  arms  around.  Then  we  got 
up  and  had  our  bath  together  right  merrily,  and  as 
soon  as  we  could  dress,  Susan  got  us  our  breakfast. 

Sometimes  now,  when  my  friends  take  me  upstairs 
and  show  me  their  model  nurseries,  with  the  little 
brass  bedsteads  ranged  along  the  wall  in  hygienic  iso 
lation,  I  feel  a  vague  sort  of  pity  for  their  lonely  little 

75 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


occupants.  A  picture  comes  up  before  me  of  a  great 
four-posted  bed,  with  two  little  boys  in  the  centre  of 
it.  One  has  on  a  long,  white  nightgown,  and  repre 
sents  life.  The  other  little  fellow,  without  any  clothes, 
is  very  beautiful  and  represents  the  other  life.  And 
I  wonder  whether  the  warm  human  brotherhood,  and 
the  fancy  flights  heavenward,  were  not  more  than  com 
pensation  for  the  fact  that  a  trifle  less  oxygen  per 
minute  passed  into  each  little  pair  of  lungs.  I  remem 
ber  that  my  grandfather  Percyfield  counted  it  a  part 
of  our  education,  and  after  assuring  himself  that  we 
had  plenty  of  coverings  and  were  not  wakened  in  the 
morning,  made  no  objection  to  this  childish  attempt 
to  act  out  the  poetry  of  life.  He  was  even  satisfied 
to  lose  the  beauty  sleep  one  night  out  of  the  seven, 
thinking  that  we  were  getting  the  greater  beauty  of 
spirit. 

More  severe  people  said  that  my  grandfather  Percy- 
field  spoiled  Charlotte  and  me  by  allowing  us  to  live 
such  a  joyous,  natural  life,  and  by  doing  so  much  for 
our  comfort  and  pleasure.  I  am  afraid  that  my  grand 
father  Marston  would  have  said  so,  and  my  aunt 
Percyfield  made  no  secret  of  her  opinion.  But  I 
think  they  were  mistaken.  Along  with  the  pleasure, 
he  gave  us  the  desire  to  use  it  at  its  highest,  and 
through  our  great  love  and  admiration  for  him,  he  im 
planted  in  us  a  sense  of  noblesse  oblige  that  would,  I 
verily  believe,  have  taken  us  through  fire  and  water, 
had  there  been  any  occasion  for  it.  1  may  not  speak 
so  freely  of  myself,  for  it  would  be  unbecoming,  but  I 

76 


MOONLIGHT 


have  seen  Charlotte  do  things  that  would  have  been 
worthy  of  a  Roman  matron  of  the  most  heroic  period. 
It  is  not  hardships  that  make  men  brave  and  women 
heroic.  It  is  the  ideas  which  they  mix  with  their  daily 
bread  and  butter. 

My  grandfather  Percyfield  once  gave  me  a  little 
book,  —  it  was  Max  Miiller's  Memories,  —  and  on 
the  fly-leaf  he  wrote,  "  Strength  and  gentleness.  Men 
have  cultivated  the  one  and  women  the  other.  Do 
thou  cultivate  both."  I  remember  that  I  liked  the 
sound  of  the  words.  There  was  something  pleasant 
to  my  ears  in  the  old-fashioned,  mandatory  English. 
But  I  did  not  half  comprehend  their  meaning.  I  am 
coming  now  to  see  what  he  meant,  and  with  all  the 
force  that  is  in  me,  I  am  trying  to  follow  his  injunc 
tion. 

Margaret  enjoyed  these  little  dances,  as  she  did  all 
forms  of  activity,  but  better  still  she  liked  our  charades 
and  private  theatricals.  It  was  her  pet  ambition  to 
be  an  actress,  and  had  Mrs.  Raven  el  been  foolish 
enough  to  consent,  I  think  that  Margaret  would  have 
made  a  star.  She  had  the  physical  qualities,  the 
beauty,  the  voice,  the  carriage,  but  above  all  she  had 
the  spiritual  equipment.  There  was  a  fire  about  her 
that  shone  out  in  her  eyes  and  expressed  itself  in  all 
her  movements.  It  would  have  thrilled  an  audience. 
But  as  Mrs.  Ravenel  would  not  hear  of  such  a  thing, 
we  had  to  get  as  much  acting  as  we  could  in  a  private 
way.  I  helped  with  a  good  will,  for  I  always  wanted 
to  please  Margaret,  but  I  looked  upon  the  stage  all 

77 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


the  same  as  a  very  dangerous  rival.  Margaret  was  so 
imperious  that  I  half  expected  Mrs.  Ravenel  sometime 
to  give  in.  One  day  I  told  Margaret  very  positively 
that  I  meant  to  marry  her  just  as  soon  as  I  was  grown 
up.  Boys  do  not  realize  that  growing  up  is  rather  a 
gradual  process.  But  Margaret  tossed  her  head  and 
said  that  she  would  not  marry  the  king  of  England, 
for  she  was  going  on  the  stage. 

My  first  experience  of  Margaret's  acting  came  near 
to  being  disastrous.  My  mother  and  Charlotte  had 
gone  into  the  more  built-up  part  of  the  city,  where  the 
shops  were,  to  do  some  errands.  Kandolph  and  Pey 
ton  were  off  on  some  excursion  with  their  father.  It 
was  Saturday  afternoon  and  Margaret  and  I  were  left 
to  our  own  devices.  She  proposed  that  we  should  act. 
She  was  to  be  pursued  by  brigands,  —  we  had  recently 
seen  the  Seven  Wonderful  Escapes  of  the  Lady  of 
Lyons,  —  and  just  at  the  critical  moment  was  to  faint, 
when  I,  as  the  hero  of  the  play,  was  to  rush  in  and 
carry  her  off,  quite  unhurt  in  spite  of  the  pistol  shots 
that  resounded  on  all  sides.  I  had  never  seen  Mar 
garet  act  and  did  not  know  how  well  she  could  do  it. 
It  was  agreed  that  she  should  run  around  the  drawing- 
room  table  three  times,  and  then  faint.  I  was  to  rush 
in  from  the  hall,  and  carry  her  off  to  the  dining-room, 
which  served  as  the  castle  of  Monaco,  and  was  sup 
posed  to  be  my  own  family  seat.  Margaret's  fright 
was  superb.  Her  eyes  flashed.  Her  breath  came  in 
audible  gasps.  She  darted  hither  and  thither  like  one 
truly  pursued.  I  could  fairly  see  the  brigands,  and 

78 


MOONLIGHT 


in  my  excitement  could  scarcely  wait  for  the  time  of 
rescue  to  come.  When  Margaret  had  gone  around 
the  table  twice  she  threw  up  her  hands  above  her  head, 
and  went  down  on  the  floor  with  a  crash,  as  nearly 
lifeless  a  mass  as  I  had  ever  seen.  Thoroughly  fright 
ened,  I  rushed  over  to  her,  and  raised  her  face  in  my 
hands  and  covered  it  with  passionate  kisses,  begging 
her  piteously  to  come  back  to  life.  Margaret  darted 
to  her  feet  like  a  little  fury,  vowing  that  I  was  the 
greatest  stupid  in  the  world,  and  half  suspecting  that 
I,  too,  was  acting.  I  was  greatly  taken  aback,  but 
when  I  explained  to  her  that  she  had  forgotten  to  run 
around  the  table  the  third  time  and  that  I  had  been 
truly  half  scared  to  death,  she  saw  the  reasonableness 
of  it  and  forgave  me.  I  fancy,  too,  that  the  triumph 
for  her  acting  more  than  balanced  her  very  real  anger 
at  the  kisses. 

Then  we  did  the  scene  over  again,  more  to  her  satis 
faction,  if  not  to  mine. 

After  that  we  often  had  fainting  scenes,  for  it  was 
one  of  Margaret's  specialties.  In  truth,  I  have  never 
seen  any  one  do  it  better,  even  on  the  real  stage.  It 
inspired  Charlotte  and  me  with  a  wild  desire  to  do  the 
same  thing,  and  finally  we  got  to  do  it  almost  as  well 
as  Margaret,  though  I  confess  that  we  covered  our 
selves  with  bruises  long  before  we  did  with  glory.  In 
reality  it  is  very  simple.  You  merely  relax  every 
muscle  and  let  yourself  go  as  completely  as  if  you 
were  falling  on  a  feather  bed.  Two  or  three  years  ago, 
after  Charlotte  and  I  had  seen  a  famous  actress  in  a 

79 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


famous  fainting  scene,  Charlotte  recalled  our  own  early 
efforts  in  that  line.  We  were  sitting  in  the  drawing- 
room  at  Uplands,  and  Charlotte  wondered  if  I  could 
still  do  it,  now  that  I  was  six  feet.  I  offered  to  try, 
and  found  to  my  surprise  that  though  at  least  eleven 
years  had  passed  since  our  winter  at  New  Orleans,  I 
could  still  faint  to  perfection.  Poor  Charlotte  was  al 
most  as  much  frightened  as  I  was  when  Margaret 
fainted  that  first  time,  and  to  pay  me  for  her  fright 
made  some  cutting  and  highly  moral  remarks  about 
how  desirable  it  would  be  if  one  could  remember  use 
ful  accomplishments  as  easily  as  silly  pranks.  But  I 
agreed  with  her  so  humbly  that  it  ended  by  her  laugh 
ing  and  trying  it  herself.  However,  she  has  a  much 
shorter  distance  to  fall  than  I  have. 

I  got  one  comfort  out  of  the  castle  of  Monaco  scene, 
even  in  its  corrected  form,  and  this  was  that  having 
run  off  with  the  lady  and  brought  her  to  my  castle, 
the  only  logical  thing  to  do  was  to  marry  her.  Even 
Margaret  admitted  that. 

We  did  a  great  deal  in  the  way  of  theatricals  that 
winter.  All  the  pentagon  came  to  share  Margaret's 
enthusiasm.  We  worked  in  some  of  the  Lee  children 
and  the  younger  Beaumonts  for  the  minor  parts.  We 
had  sleep-walking  scenes,  and  suicides,  and  duels,  and 
hairbreadth  escapes,  the  more  thrilling  the  better.  I 
am  afraid,  indeed,  that  our  taste  ran  decidedly  to 
melodrama.  Usually  the  plot  thickened  and  developed 
as  we  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  play,  but  some 
times  Peyton  and  I  put  our  heads  together  and  got  up 

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a  more  premeditated  text.  I  had  always  to  be  careful, 
however,  and  not  overact  my  part.  Margaret  was  a 
very  exacting  stage  manager,  but  she  was  very  just  in 
distributing  the  parts.  Whenever  I  could,  I  contrived 
to  take  the  part  of  the  lover,  if  Margaret  were  the 
heroine,  and  in  the  more  impassioned  scenes  I  found 
it  necessary  to  do  at  least  some  kissing.  I  could  never 
get  Margaret  to  like  this  part  of  my  acting,  but  she 
sometimes  submitted  for  artistic  reasons.  She  was 
not  a  young  lady,  however,  to  permit  any  liberties,  and 
I  liked  her  the  better  for  it.  Peyton  told  me  that 
once  Fletcher  Mason  had  taken  Margaret  out  in  a 
boat  and  when  they  got  some  distance  from  shore,  he 
said,  "  Now,  Margaret,  I  'm  going  to  kiss  you."  "  No, 
you  're  not,  Fletcher  Mason,"  cried  Margaret.  "  Yes, 
I  am,"  said  he,  making  a  move  as  if  he  were  really 
going  to  do  it.  With  that,  Margaret  sprang  out  of 
the  boat  into  the  water  and  tried  to  make  her  way  to 
the  shore.  Fletcher  was  frightened  almost  to  death, 
for  the  water  was  deep,  and  he  had  much  ado  to  save 
Margaret  from  drowning. 

Mrs.  Lee  was  so  impressed  with  one  of  our  im 
promptu  scenes,  that  she  was  for  having  us  get  up  a 
regular  play  and  invite  our  friends  to  see  us  act  it. 
But  my  grandfather  Percyfield  put  her  off.  He  much 
preferred  that  we  should  make  up  our  own  plays  and 
have  only  casual  and  informal  audiences.  I  see  now 
why  he  did.  How  shrewd  he  was,  my  dignified,  af 
fable  old  grandfather  Percyfield,  and  what  a  subtle 
educator.  At  Christmas,  however,  he  did  give  Mar- 

81 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


garet  a  very  pretty  toy  theatre,  with  scenes  and  figures 
for  giving  Hamlet,  and  he  got  us  a  number  of  paper 
copies  of  the  play.  This  was  not  so  much  fun  as  act 
ing  ourselves,  but  it  was  a  change,  and  it  did  what  my 
grandfather  Percyfield  evidently  meant  that  it  should 
do,  —  it  made  us  intimately  acquainted  with  a  great 
play.  Ophelia  was  usually  taken  by  Margaret  and  I 
commonly  managed  Hamlet.  Margaret  coached  me 
on  the  soliloquy,  however,  for  she  thought  I  did  not 
put  enough  tragedy  into  it.  It  was  not  convenient  for 
more  than  about  five  to  play  with  the  theatre,  and  so 
each  of  us  assumed  one  major  and  several  minor  parts. 
I  am  sure  that  Margaret  knew  the  whole  play  by  heart, 
and  the  rest  knew  it  pretty  nearly. 

Later,  my  grandfather  Percyfield  got  us  five  copies 
of  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream,  and  encouraged  us  to 
make  the  scenery  and  figures  ourselves.  I  remember 
that  Peyton  managed  the  whole  thing,  for  it  was  a 
play  well  suited  to  his  imaginative  nature. 

It  was  my  grandfather  Percyfield  also  who  suggested 
that  we  might  make  plays  out  of  the  Waverley  novels. 
I  had  already  read  the  greater  part  of  them,  but  1  was 
very  glad  to  reread  them  under  this  fresh  incentive 
and  in  the  good  company  of  the  pentagon.  My  grand 
father  Percyfield  often  joined  us,  as  did  my  mother, 
and  they  took  their  turn  in  the  reading,  or  helped 
us  with  any  long  words.  I  remember,  however,  that 
they  never  told  us  the  meaning  of  any  unusual  word 
unless  we  asked  for  it,  and  seldom  added  any  informa 
tion  outside  of  the  story  unless  there  was  the  most 


MOONLIGHT 


natural  occasion  for  it.  I  think  that  on  the  whole, 
Ivanhoe  was  our  favorite,  though  Charlotte  rather  in 
clined  to  The  Talisman.  We  acted  parts  of  Ivanhoe 
with  great  spirit.  It  happened  to  be  my  first  choice 
of  characters,  and  of  course  I  took  the  title  role,  dress 
ing  myself  in  one  of  Charlotte's  old  plaid  dresses,  and 
baring  my  legs  and  knees  in  genuine  Scotch  fashion. 
When  Margaret  announced  that  she  would  be  Rowena, 
my  happiness  was  complete.  She  wore  a  white  petti 
coat  of  her  mother's,  and  trimmed  it  with  a  flounce  of 
green  tissue  paper  that  rustled  most  delightfully  when 
she  walked.  Charlotte,  in  spite  of  her  blue  eyes,  had 
to  be  Rebecca,  and  Randolph  made  a  splendid  Knight 
Templar.  He  had  a  long  cloak  of  white  tissue  paper, 
with  a  light  blue  Maltese  cross  on  the  back  of  it,  and 
in  his  cap  he  wore  white  and  blue  plumes.  As  I  re 
member  him,  I  think  he  would  have  made  a  better 
Lohengrin  than  Templar,  but  at  the  time,  we  thought 
his  costume  very  suitable  and  very  fine.  Peyton  was 
curiously  obstinate.  There  were  no  very  nice  people 
left,  it  is  true,  but  Randolph  and  I  offered  to  give  up 
either  the  Templar  or  Ivanhoe.  However  Peyton  stuck 
to  it  and  would  be  Sir  Walter  Scott.  We  represented 
to  him  that  he  could  not  be  Sir  Walter  Scott,  as  he 
did  n't  come  into  the  book  once,  but  Peyton  was  whim 
sical  and  would  have  it  that  without  Sir  Walter,  the 
rest  of  us  would  be  nowhere  at  all,  and  that  he  had  to 
come  to  keep  the  rest  of  us  in  existence.  This  seemed 
out-and-out  nonsense  to  Randolph,  and  it  was  even 
somewhat  of  a  strain  on  my  own  loyalty.  We  neither 

83 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


of  us  had  the  wit  to  see  that  Peyton  was  by  all  odds 
the  deepest  philosopher  in  the  pentagon. 

Peyton  had  his  way,  however,  and  when  he  appeared 
in  riding  boots  and  jacket,  whip  in  hand,  and  at 
tended  by  two  great  hunting  dogs  from  the  plantation, 
he  made  a  capital  master  of  Abbotsford,  and  proved 
to  be  quite  the  star  of  the  occasion.  His  talk  was 
so  droll  that  I  thought  my  grandfather  Percyfield 
would  have  hurt  himself  with  laughing.  Peyton  spoke 
of  us  and  our  affairs  as  if  we  were  so  many  dolls,  and 
could  hear  nothing  of  what  was  said.  He  speculated 
as  to  whether  he  had  better  kill  the  Templar  off  and 
make  Ivanhoe  fall  in  love  with  Rebecca.  Then  he 
discussed  the  events  of  the  tourney  just  as  if  they 
might  have  turned  out  other  than  they  did.  We  were 
all  so  taken  aback  by  this  high-handed  behavior  on 
the  part  of  our  usually  shy  and  complaisant  Peyton, 
that  even  Margaret  became  a  puppet,  and  the  game 
was  all  in  Peyton's  hands. 

My  grandfather  Percyfield  was  delighted.  He  leaned 
over  to  my  mother  and  said,  "  We  are  making  pro 
gress,  are  we  not  ?  "  My  mother  smiled  and  nodded. 

I  noticed  from  the  very  first  that  Margaret  showed 
an  astonishing  familiarity  with  Hereford  Hall.  Often 
she  would  tell  me  where  things  were  that  I  did  not 
know  myself.  For  some  time  she  evidently  thought 
that  Hereford  Hall  was  the  name  of  our  place  in 
Pennsylvania.  But  Charlotte  and  I  frequently  spoke 
of  Uplands,  and  so  the  two  places  must  have  got 
pretty  well  mixed  up  to  Margaret.  Children  seldom 

84 


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explain  things.  They  take  it  all  for  granted.  The 
other  child  must  put  two  and  two  together  and  reach 
such  conclusions  as  he  may.  It  was  this  that  made 
my  grandfather  Percyfield  contend  that  children  are 
better  teachers  than  are  the  grown-up  people,  and 
always  follow  the  most  advanced  German  method. 

One  day  it  suddenly  became  clear  to  Margaret  that 
by  Hereford  Hall  we  meant  our  New  Orleans  home. 
"  Why,  this  is  not  Hereford  Hall,"  she  exclaimed,  in 
high  disdain,  "  this  is  Arlington.  My  grandfather 
named  it  so,  himself."  I  maintained  stoutly  that  it 
was  Hereford  Hall.  "  Well,"  said  Margaret,  proudly, 
"  who  should  know  the  better,  we  who  have  been  born 
here,  or  a  stranger  ?  "  Then  I  could  see  that  she  was 
sorry  to  have  said  anything. 

So  the  little  mystery  about  our  place  was  solved. 
It  was  Margaret  and  her  mother  who  were  our  land 
lords.  But  later,  we  could  not  help  knowing  the 
rest  of  the  story.  The  old  mansion,  it  seems,  was  so 
covered  with  mortgages  that  all  the  rent  went  to 
the  holders  of  these  papers,  and  none  to  our  neighbors 
in  the  cottage.  It  was  hard  for  them  to  see  stran 
gers  in  their  old  home,  and  especially  Northerners, 
for  the  home,  like  all  the  rest,  had  gone  through  de 
votion  to  the  Lost  Cause.  This  was  the  reason  that 
Mrs.  Ravenel  came  so  seldom  to  the  Hall,  and  that  it 
had  been  so  difficult  at  first  to  get  acquainted  with 
them. 

Once,  when  Margaret  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  in  the 
drawing-room,  she  looked  at  me  for  some  time,  and 

85 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


then  said,  abruptly,  "  No ;  I  could  never  marry  a 
Yankee." 

44  Well,"  said  I,  hotly,  "  ladies  usually  wait  until 
they  are  asked ;  "  and  in  a  minute  I  would  have  given 
my  pony  not  to  have  said  it. 

Margaret  came  over  and  kissed  me  very  gently,  — 
a  most  unusual  thing  for  her,  —  and  said,  "  Don't  be 
vexed,  John,  you  can't  help  it."  For  the  moment,  I 
fear  me,  I  was  not  entirely  loyal  to  my  good  grand 
father  Marston  and  the  Federal  cause,  for  just  then  I 
should  much  have  liked  not  to  be  a  Yankee. 

We  had  our  little  squabbles,  Margaret  and  I,  and 
sometimes  a  tiny  storm  even  passed  over  the  pentagon, 
but  on  the  whole,  I  doubt  whether  there  were  in  all 
the  world  five  happier  children  than  we  were. 

In  the  late  spring  we  went  back  to  Uplands,  my 
mother,  my  grandfather  Percyfield,  and  Charlotte  and 
I.  Pompey  and  Susan  came  with  the  most  of  our 
belongings  a  day  or  two  later.  Arlington,  or  Here 
ford  Hall,  as  I  must  still  call  it,  never  looked  more 
beautiful.  To  me  it  was  like  paradise  lost.  The  fresh 
blossoms  and  greenery  covered  up  the  shabbiness  of 
the  old  mansion  and  turned  it  into  a  veritable  bower. 
The  sun  was  shining,  the  birds  were  singing,  the  air 
was  full  of  life.  But  the  household  itself  was  very  sad, 
and  no  one  save  my  brave  old  grandfather  Percyfield 
made  the  least  attempt  to  conceal  the  fact.  As  for  my 
self,  I  thought  my  heart  would  break.  Not  even  the 
fact  that  I  kissed  Margaret  a  great  many  times,  and 
that  she  put  her  arms  around  me  and  kissed  me,  could 

86 


MOONLIGHT 


bring  much  comfort.  It  was  almost  as  hard  parting 
with  Peyton.  I  loved  the  boy  in  a  way  as  deeply  as  I 
loved  Margaret,  and  we  had  lived  in  such  intimate 
comradeship  that  it  was  like  giving  up  a  part  of  myself 
to  leave  him.  Poor  Aunt  Viney  was  loud  in  her  lamen 
tations  when  she  came  to  say  good-by  to  Charlotte  and 
me,  but  she  loved  my  beautiful  mother  best  of  all. 
Aunt  Viney  covered  my  mother's  hand  with  kisses, 
and  said,  brokenly,  "  Oh,  honey,  I  mos'  wish  you  'd 
nevah  'a1  come.  I  declar'  to  gracious  I  do,  fo'  I'll 
nevah  see  yo'  agen,  nevah  agen."  Then  Aunt  Viney 
threw  her  apron  up  over  her  head  and  crept  off  to  her 
own  quarters. 

Mrs.  Kavenel,  I  think,  was  the  only  one  who  was 
glad  to  see  us  go.  She  had  suffered  so  deeply  for  the 
Confederacy  that  she  never  quite  forgave  us  for  being 
Yankees.  She  was  a  gentle,  well-bred  woman,  but 
she  lived  wholly  in  the  past  with  her  dead  husband 
and  father,  and  this  hostility  to  us  was,  I  think,  only 
a  subtle  part  of  her  loyalty  to  them.  Mrs.  Ravenel 
would  not  let  Margaret  promise  to  write  to  me,  or 
even  to  Charlotte,  but  put  us  off  by  saying  that  doubt 
less  we  would  be  back  again  the  following  winter. 

But  we  never  went  back,  and  I  have  never  again 
seen  one  of  the  people  who  made  that  winter  in  New 
Orleans  such  a  red-letter  time  in  our  lives. 

Many  things  happened  at  Uplands.  I  went  to 
Harvard,  and  later,  Charlotte  was  at  Bryn  Mawr. 
Then  my  gallant  old  grandfather  Percyfield  died, 
courteous  and  brave  to  the  last,  and  after  that  came 

87 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


the  sudden  tragedy  of  my  mother's  death.  We  heard 
nothing  of  the  Ravenels  except  a  stray  rumor  that 
they  had  recovered  most  of  their  property,  and  were 
again  established  at  Arlington.  But  I  never  for  an 
instant  forgot  Margaret,  or  Randolph  or  Peyton.  Curi 
ously  enough,  neither  Randolph  nor  Peyton  grew  up 
in  my  mind.  I  thought  of  them,  and  do  still,  as  little 
boys,  just  as  I  left  them  at  New  Orleans.  Randolph 
has  become  a  trifle  vague,  but  the  dear  Peyton  remains 
a  very  real  presence.  Many  a  little  boy  have  I  loved 
and  gone  out  of  my  way  to  serve,  simply  because  of  a 
chance  resemblance  to  Peyton.  I  had  such  an  encounter 
once  when  I  was  at  Zurich,  working  out  the  geological 
arbeit  that  was  to  make  me  a  doctor  of  philosophy. 
It  was  one  Sunday  morning.  I  was  climbing  the 
steep  hill  to  the  west  of  Niederurnen,  and  noticed  a 
man  and  boy  some  distance  from  the  path.  I  spoke 
to  them,  as  I  always  did  to  the  peasants  whom  I  met, 
but  they  were  so  earnest  in  their  talk  that  they  did 
not  see  me.  I  went  on  through  the  wood,  the  path 
growing  steeper  and  steeper  all  the  time.  Finally  I 
got  quite  out  of  breath,  and  had  to  sit  down  on  a  large 
stone  to  rest.  The  man  and  boy  came  up  the  path 
and  found  me  there.  They  stopped  and  spoke  with 
me  in  very  friendly  fashion.  The  man  could  speak 
German,  but  the  little  boy,  whose  name  was  Fridolin, 
spoke  only  the  Swiss  dialect,  and  so  the  man  obligingly 
acted  as  our  interpreter.  After  a  moment,  the  man 
said  to  me,  "  Wert  thou  not  going  up  the  mountain  ?  " 
"  Oh,  yes ! "  said  I,  "  but  I  am  afraid  that  I  shall  not 

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MOONLIGHT 


be  able  to  go  as  fast  as  you  do."  "  In  that  case," 
said  lie,  with  a  courtesy  that  would  have  done  credit 
to  Lord  Chesterfield,  "  we  will  go  as  slowly  as  thou." 
We  had  an  hour's  climb,  and  a  very  pleasant  one,  too, 
for  at  every  step  I  was  getting  more  and  more  attached 
to  Fridolin.  I  showed  him  my  compass  and  my  geologi 
cal  hammer,  and  the  little  instrument  I  have  for  meas 
uring  the  dip  of  the  rock.  Our  path  ended  in  one  of 
those  wild  little  valleys  common  enough  in  the  lower 
Alps,  and  especially  in  the  region  between  the  Linth 
and  the  Sihl.  It  was  only  used  in  summer,  and 
the  rude  little  chalet,  that  we  saw  at  some  distance, 
was  Fridolin's  summer  home.  It  was  already  ten 
o'clock,  but  not  an  animal  or  a  person  was  to  be  seen. 
The  rich,  green  pasturage  that  crunched  under  our 
feet  as  we  walked  through  it  had  apparently  no 
tenants.  But  I  was  soon  undeceived.  My  peasant 
asked  if  I  should  not  like  to  see  their  fine  cattle,  and 
took  me  into  a  long,  stone  stable.  Fridolin  would  not 
come  in,  but  left  us  at  the  door.  I  gave  him  a  piece 
of  silver  as  an  andenJcen.  He  thanked  me  shyly,  and 
ran  off  to  the  chalet  without  saying  good-by.  I  was 
curiously  disappointed.  However,  I  followed  the  peas 
ant  into  the  stable,  and  had  to  share  his  enthusiasm, 
for  I  saw  a  lot  of  beasts  finer  than  anything  that  had 
ever  graced  our  own  barns  at  Uplands,  and  my  grand 
father  Percyfield  prided  himself  on  his  stock.  It 
seems  that  they  do  not  let  the  cattle  out  until  the 
dew  is  off  the  grass,  and  this  accounted  for  the  de 
serted  appearance  of  the  valley,  and  also  perhaps  for 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


the  splendid  condition  of  the  animals.  When  we 
came  out  of  the  stable,  I  was  surprised  to  find  Fri- 
dolin  waiting  for  us.  Something  evidently  had  disap 
pointed  him.  He  had  gone  to  seek  me  a  flower.  His 
garden  consisted  of  several  boxes  fastened  up  in  the 
trees,  so  as  to  be  out  of  the  reach  of  the  goats,  but 
though  Fridolin  had  scrambled  up  to  every  box,  he 
could  not  find  me  a  single  flower,  for  it  was  still  too 
early.  He  had  come  back  to  tell  me,  and  also  to  say 
good-by.  I  was  quite  touched  by  this  little  attention, 
and  left  the  child  most  unwillingly.  I  took  myself 
to  task  for  being  a  soft-hearted,  foolish  fellow.  Then 
it  suddenly  flashed  over  me  that  Fridolin  resembled 
Peyton.  In  reality,  I  had  been  saying  good-by  again 
to  my  little  playfellow,  my  angel  brother,  and  that 
accounted  for  the  pain. 

It  was  the  same  at  Florence.  If  you  remember, 
there  is  a  picture  there  of  Endymion  sleeping.  It 
hangs  directly  over  the  door  in  that  celebrated  octago 
nal  chamber  in  the  Uffizi.  It  was  painted  by  Guer- 
cino,  an  artist  that  I  greatly  love,  for  in  all  of  his 
people,  —  saints,  madonnas,  shadow  folk,  —  there  is 
a  human  tenderness  so  sweet  and  touching  that  it 
more  than  makes  up  for  any  technical  deficiencies  of 
line  or  color.  I  used  always  to  go  to  Endymion  every 
day  I  went  to  the  gallery.  It  was  the  second  picture 
I  visited.  I  did  not  know  for  several  days  why  I  hung 
over  it  so  persistently:  it  is  a  veritable  portrait  of 
Peyton. 

But  there  is  another  picture  —  it  is  in  the  Pitti — 
90 


MOONLIGHT 


that  I  always  visited  first.  It  is  a  madonna  of  Muril- 
lo's,  not  the  madonna  of  the  rosary,  but  the  other  one 
that  hangs  near  it  on  the  same  wall.  It  is  the  only 
picture  in  all  the  world  before  which  I  should  like  to 
kneel  and  pray.  The  sweet  face  of  the  madonna  is 
in  reality  the  face  of  my  beautiful  mother.  You  will 
not  blame  me  that  I  often  speak  to  her  aloud,  as  peo 
ple  do  when  they  pray.  I  have  a  copy  of  the  picture 
in  my  room  at  Uplands,  one  of  those  soft  carbon 
prints,  such  as  you  can  buy  in  Florence,  and  it  is  the 
best  portrait  of  my  mother  that  we  have. 

The  galleries  of  Europe  are  curious  places,  at  once 
haunting,  ecstatic,  painful,  for  in  them  are  hung  the 
portraits  of  every  friend  ever  we  had,  and  even  of 
most  of  our  acquaintances.  Margaret  is  the  central 
figure  in  a  celebrated  old  picture  in  the  Louvre,  and 
Charlotte's  laughing  eyes  are  on  every  canvas  that 
ever  Madame  Le  Brun  painted. 

But  while  Randolph  and  Peyton  always  remain 
boys  in  my  thought  and  never  grow  an  inch  taller  or 
a  year  older,  Margaret  has  ever  been  a  progressive 
figure.  Her  image  has  a  way  of  slipping  back  in 
point  of  time  to  the  long,  down-falling  hair,  and  the 
familiar  blue  gown  made  in  the  sailor  fashion,  but  her 
intelligence,  her  spirit,  has  grown  along  with  mine. 
Much  has  happened  to  her.  She  has  been  to  two 
great  universities  ;  she  has  wandered  over  half  the 
globe ;  she  has  seen  the  chief  galleries  of  Europe  ; 
she  has  listened  to  many  a  grand  symphony  and  opera 
on  both  sides  of  the  water ;  she  has  read  a  library  of 

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JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


books  ;  she  knows  a  little  German  ;  she  speaks  French 
and  Italian  ;  she  has  studied  geology,  and  has  dabbled 
a  little  in  philosophy,  and  even  in  mysticism,  —  in  a 
word,  she  has  done  all  that  I  have  ever  done.  But 
she  is  very  far  from  being  a  mere  projection  of  myself. 
If  she  were  only  that,  I  should  not  at  all  love  her. 
On  the  contrary,  she  has  a  distinct  personality.  The 
reaction  from  all  this  experience  is  different  in  her, 
for  she  is  a  woman.  It  is  curious  that  she  should 
have  so  much  personality.  There  are  times,  such  as 
to-night,  when  it  seems  impossible  that  she  is  merely  a 
dream  woman,  so  real  is  she.  But  I  am  just  as  con 
scious  of  this  distinct  personality  as  I  am  of  the  sweet 
smell  of  her  hair,  or  the  depth  of  her  eyes. 

Even  Margaret's  opinions  are  different  from  mine. 
Sometimes  I  defer  to  them,  and  occasionally  I  resist 
them,  as  being  perhaps  not  so  good  as  mine.  You 
see,  Margaret  is  more  practical  and  objective  than  I 
am,  and  always  sees  the  immediate  bearing  of  the 
matter  in  hand.  I  think  she  is  also  a  little  less  re 
ligious  than  I  am,  or  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  that  she 
is  more  conventional  in  such  matters,  and  sticks  much 
nearer  to  the  prayer-book  than  I  do.  I  am  conscious 
of  a  greater  spiritual  daring,  a  deeper  assurance  in 
divine  matters  than  I  have  ever  been  able  to  give 
to  her. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  I  can  speak  in  this  posi 
tive  manner  about  a  dream  woman,  about  the  ideal 
Margaret,  but  you  must  remember  that  she  has  been 
my  playfellow,  my  comrade,  for  over  a  dozen  years 

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MOONLIGHT 


now.  Sometime,  and  I  find  her,  she  is  to  be  my 
wife. 

By  this  time  Margaret  must  be  about  twenty-six 
and  a  woman  quite.  And  I  am  getting  on  towards 
twenty-eight,  or  rather  twenty-nine.  The  real  Mar 
garet  Ravenel  may  not  be  at  all  like  my  dream 
Margaret.  The  difference  might  even  shock  me.  I 
do  not  allow  myself  to  think  of  it.  My  own  Marga 
ret  may  even  bear  another  name,  but  I  should  call  her 
Margaret :  I  am  sure  of  that.  I  never  go  out  of  my 
way  to  seek  her,  for  that  would  be  useless.  Indeed  I 
am  almost  a  fatalist  in  the  matter.  Is  it  not  the  dear 
Emerson  who  says,  "The  friend  that  thou  art  seek 
ing  is  also  seeking  thee." 

I  have  met  many  charming  women  in  the  past  six 
or  eight  years  —  having  a  charming  sister  helps  one 
to  it  —  and  one  would  have  thought  that  being  a  "  phi 
losopher  and  a  man  of  sentiment,"  as  Miss  Polyhymnia 
has  it,  I  might  have  fallen  in  love  some  time  since.  I 
have  loved  some  of  these  charming  women  in  a  gentle, 
brotherly  way,  but  the  great  love,  the  grand  passion, 
has  always  been  for  Margaret.  If  I  never  find  her,  I 
shall  have  to  die  a  lonely  old  bachelor,  but  that  would 
be  infinitely  better  than  marrying  anybody  else. 

Sometimes  I  wonder  whether  I  should  recognize 
Margaret,  if  she  happened  not  to  have  prominent  cheek 
bones,  and  an  oval,  almost  triangular  face,  and  spar 
kling  dark  eyes,  and  sweet-smelling,  chestnut  hair;  and 
when  I  think  that,  the  tricksy  moonlight  brings  again 
into  the  chair  opposite  to  me  a  little  girl  in  a  blue 

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JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


frock,  made  after  the  sailor  fashion,  and  the  hot  feel 
ing  in  my  heart  is  a  curious  mixture  of  pain  and 
pleasure. 

The  dinner  bell  is  late  in  ringing  to-night,  but  even 
then  it  comes  too  soon.  When  one  has  had  a  happy 
childhood,  and  is  still  happy,  the  moonlight  is  a  charm 
ing  thing. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ILLUSIONS 

IT  is  my  habit,  when  I  am  away  from  home,  to  lock 
my  door  of  a  night.  It  is  not  my  habit,  however,  to 
search  the  closets,  or  like  the  old  ladies  in  Cranford, 
to  roll  a  ball  under  the  bed  to  find  out  whether  there 
is  a  man  there.  Indeed  my  room  here  at  the  Chateau 
is  so  big  that  I  should  be  much  put  to  if  I  had  to  go 
the  rounds  every  night. 

When,  therefore,  I  woke  up  the  other  night  and 
found  a  man  in  my  room,  I  remembered  having  locked 
my  door,  and  concluded  that  hereafter  I  had  better  in 
vestigate  the  wardrobe  and  look  under  the  dressing- 
table  before  I  went  to  bed,  provided,  of  course,  that  I 
came  out  of  the  present  adventure  with  a  whole  skin, 
and  did  not  have  my  throat  cut  then  and  there.  It 
was  a  short,  heavily-built  man  of  rather  dark  complex 
ion.  He  was  some  distance  away  from  the  bed,  and 
stood  regarding  me  in  no  unfriendly  way,  but  rather 
with  an  air  of  distinct  interest,  as  much  as  to  say, 
«  Well,  by  all  that 's  good,  what  have  we  here  ?  "  If 
he  saw  me  at  all  clearly,  he  must  have  read  the  same 
expression  on  my  own  face,  for  I  think  I  may  say  that 
I  was  equally,  or  even  more  astonished.  I  sat  up  in 
bed,  —  more  quickly,  I  suspect,  than  I  do  of  a  morning, 

95 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


—  and  reached  over  to  my  little  night  table  for  a  match. 
Whatever  the  adventure,  I  wanted  to  have  a  little 
light  on  it.  I  remember  that  the  match  burned  very 
slowly,  it  was  one  of  those  foul  sulphur  matches,  and 
it  seemed  an  interminable  tune  before  I  finally  had  my 
candle  lighted.  Then  I  thought  to  have  a  good  look 
at  my  assailant,  or  my  guest,  whichever  he  should  turn 
out  to  be,  and  discover  his  purpose. 

But  there  was  no  one  there. 

I  peered  into  the  gloom  of  my  big  apartment  as  far 
as  the  light  of  a  single  candle  would  let  me,  and  lis 
tened  with  both  my  good  ear  and  my  game  ear,  —  I 
could  neither  see  nor  hear  the  faintest  trace  of  any 
visitor.  Then,  of  course,  I  realized  that  it  was  an 
illusion.  I  have  been  wakened  so  many  scores  of 
times  in  just  the  same  way  that  I  blew  out  my  candle 
in  disgust,  quite  vexed  to  have  taken  the  matter  so 
seriously.  But  then  I  made  excuses  to  myself,  for 
this  was  the  first  nocturnal  visitor  that  I  had  had  at 
the  Chateau,  and  I  was  unprepared.  There  used  to 
be  a  taller  man,  with  a  reddish  Vandyke  beard,  and 
a  long  black  cloak,  who  came  to  see  me  several  times 
last  winter.  I  always  suspected  him  of  being  a  painter. 
But  that  was  at  Uplands,  before  we  went  into  town. 

About  a  week  later  my  short,  dark  man  came 
again,  and  this  visit  pleased  me  still  less  than  the 
first  one.  He  stood  alongside  my  bed,  and  was  even 
stooping  over  me.  As  before,  he  wakened  me  out 
of  a  sound  sleep,  which  I  always  hold  to  be  a  great 
impertinence,  unless  you  have  something  very  impor- 

96 


ILLUSIONS 


tant  to  say  to  a  person.  But  my  visitor  had  nothing 
at  all  to  say.  Apparently  he  wanted  only  the  pleasure 
of  a  good  look  at  me,  which  being  a  homely  man,  and 
well  on  towards  thirty,  I  had  never  esteemed  any  very 
great  privilege.  This  time  he  was  dressed  in  black, 
evidently  velvet,  from  the  way  it  absorbed  the  light. 
The  first  time  he  had  worn  a  doublet  of  green  and 
blue  plaid.  He  was  so  short  and  so  stoutly  built  that 
I  mistook  him  for  a  peasant,  though  the  plaid  would 
seem  to  indicate  that  he  was  one  of  Scotland's  fore 
bears  come  to  see  what  she  was  up  to,  and  had  got 
into  the  wrong  room.  When  my  guest  came  attired 
in  velvet,  however,  I  knew  at  once  that  he  could  be 
none  other  than  that  particular  duke  of  Savoy  who 
had  so  often  claimed  my  thought,  and  that  the  blue 
and  green  plaid  was  merely  a  hunting  doublet.  Could 
he  be  looking  for  his  Margherita,  I  wonder ;  but  no,  I 
liked  to  think  of  them  as  united,  this  couple  whose 
nuptial  chamber  I  am  occupying,  and  whose  little  son 
was  born  in  this  very  room,  and  looked  out  of  the 
same  windows  that  now  give  entrance  to  the  moonlight 
and  to  dreams. 

When  I  mentioned  my  nocturnal  visitor  at  the 
table,  there  were  various  conjectures  as  to  the  purpose 
of  his  visit.  England,  with  the  instinct  of  her  com 
mercial  island,  would  have  it  that  the  duke  wished  to 
tell  me  where  some  treasure  was  buried.  He  certainly 
owed  me  something  handsome,  after  twice  wakening 
me  out  of  a  sound  sleep,  for  on  both  occasions  I  had 
much  ado  to  get  to  sleep  again. 

97 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


But  apparently  the  duke's  interest  is  satisfied,  for 
he  comes  no  more,  and  I  am  left  alone  with  the  dark 
ness  and  the  silence  in  my  great  chamber.  Sometimes 
I  quite  wish  that  he  would  come,  especially  if  he  would 
speak  to  me.  Of  course,  it  would  be  in  old-time  lan 
guage,  but  I  think  I  could  manage  it,  though  I  might 
have  to  say  to  him,  as  I  do  so  often  to  the  peasants, 
"  Speak  slowly,  if  you  please."  It  would  be  a  relief 
to  see  the  duke,  for  since  his  visits  I  have  been  curi 
ously  unable  to  sleep.  I  practice  usually  until  mid 
night,  and  one  would  think  that  I  ought  to  sleep, 
going  to  bed  at  that  late  hour.  I  lie  perfectly  still.  I 
am  warm  and  comfortable,  quite  happy  and  contented, 
but  I  sleep  not.  On  the  contrary  I  am  more  wide 
awake  than  at  any  hour  of  the  day,  and  I  have  a  curi 
ous  feeling  that  something  is  happening  that  I  have 
not  the  wit  to  discern. 

This  wakefulness  on  my  part  quite  distresses  the 
kind  Chatelaine.  She  has  placed  my  bed  in  different 
positions,  so  that  my  head  may  be  to  the  north,  to  the 
south,  to  the  east,  to  the  west,  but  it  is  all  in  vain. 
The  trouble  evidently  is  not  with  the  earth  currents, 
and  no  amount  of  careful  orientation  will  exorcise  it.  I 
don't  like  to  think  that  Savoy  resents  my  being  here, 
for  he  pleases  me,  this  old  fellow,  with  his  velvet 
doublet  and  his  lover's  heart.  I  am  quite  sure  that 
we  should  be  cronies,  if  he  would  only  speak. 

But  these  shadow  people  of  mine  never  do  speak. 
They  are  such  a  silent  crew  that  I  am  beginning  to 
lose  interest  in  them.  Charlotte  says  they  are  trying 


ILLUSIONS 


to  teach  me  the  virtue  of  silence.  She  has  a  theory 
that  I  talk  too  much.  But  if  this  be  their  mission  it 
is  quite  time  they  got  discouraged,  for  I  have  been 
under  tutelage  to  them  ever  since  I  was  a  small  boy. 
Not  once  have  they  spoken.  At  first  they  used  to 
frighten  me.  I  mistook  them  for  robbers.  But  that 

O 

was  very  foolish,  for  they  were  commonly  old  men, 
often  with  long,  silvery  beards  and  benign  faces,  not 
the  sort  of  person  to  be  interested  to  go  a-burgling. 
But  these  old  fellows  were  persistent.  They  would 
come  twice,  even  three  times  the  same  night,  always 
rousing  me  from  a  sound  sleep.  They  were  much  less 
considerate  than  my  grandfather  Percyfield.  The  first 
time  I  would  sit  up  in  bed  and  stare  at  the  old  man 
until  he  faded.  The  second  time  I  would  demand  an 
grily  what  he  wanted.  The  third  time  I  would  spring 
out  of  bed  and  rush  over  to  the  corner  to  see  if  I  could 
not  lay  hands  on  him.  But  I  would  find  nothing. 

I  do  not  know  what  theory  my  grandfather  Percy- 
field  had  about  these  illusions,  but  he  always  dis 
couraged  my  talking  about  them.  If  I  did  casually 
mention  that  I  had  seen  "  some  one  "  the  night  before, 
he  was  pretty  sure  to  look  into  my  occupations  even 
more  carefully  than  usual,  to  see  if  I  were  studying 
too  hard  or  reading  too  much.  When  these  investi 
gations  showed  only  normal  activity  on  my  part,  I  re 
member  that  my  grandfather  Percyfield  would  arrange 
some  outing  that  would  involve  good,  hard,  physical 
exercise,  and  tire  me  out  as  thoroughly  as  he  dared. 
Then  I  would  have  no  visitors  for  some  weeks. 

99 


JOHN  PEKCYFIELD 


The  winter  we  spent  in  New  Orleans  these  visitors 
were  particularly  numerous,  but  they  never  came  the 
nights  that  Peyton  slept  with  me.  I  spoke  about 
them  even  less  than  usual,  for  I  was  old  enough  to 
see  that  it  annoyed  my  grandfather  Percyfield.  Once 
I  told  Margaret  about  them,  but  she  looked  so  awed 
and  shrank  away  from  me  so  that,  hot  little  lover  that 
I  was,  you  may  be  sure  I  never  mentioned  them  to 
her  again.  She  must  have  told  Aunt  Viney  about  it, 
however,  for  the  old  woman  used  to  question  me  fur 
tively,  and  once  when  she  was  watching  us  at  our  play 
I  heard  her  say  to  herself :  "  He  'd  make  a  grand 
voodoo,  Marsa  John  would.  To  think  o'  the  child 
a-seein'  speerits  already.  I  'd  be  plum  scared  to  death 
ef  I  was  to  see  one,  I  declar'  to  gracious  I  would." 

I  fancy  that  many  children  have  similar  experi 
ences,  or  much  more  curious  ones,  but  do  not  speak 
of  them,  either  from  a  fear  of  being  laughed  at,  or 
from  a  notion  that  they  are  quite  common  experiences, 
and  that  all  people  have  them.  The  belief  that  one 
is  peculiar  is  a  disease  of  early  adolescence,  and  sel 
dom  afflicts  either  children  or  grown  people.  The 
first  are  too  ignorant,  the  others  too  wise.  I  always 
prick  up  my  ears  when  I  hear  children  speak  of  their 
mental  experiences,  and  question  them  as  far  as  I  dare, 
but  I  try  to  stop  far  short  of  the  line  of  self -conscious 
ness,  for  I  hold  with  my  grandfather  Percyfield  that 
no  amount  of  knowledge  would  be  justified  if  you  had 
to  pay  this  price  for  it.  I  can  see  now  how  tremen 
dously  careful  he  was  to  guard  Charlotte  and  me  from 

100 


ILLUSIONS 


it.  I  think  it  was  one  reason  why  he  did  not  want  us 
to  go  to  school.  He  wanted  to  keep  us  children  just 
as  long  as  he  could.  And  now  I  am  deeply  thankful 
to  him  for  it.  I  can  see  that  in  so  many  ways  I  am 
still  a  boy,  frankly  happy,  frankly  affectionate,  and, 
please  God,  I  mean  to  remain  so  till  the  end. 

This  habit  of  seeing  people  at  night  does  not  at  all 
run  in  the  family.  At  least  I  don't  know  of  any 
cases.  Charlotte  used  rather  to  envy  me  my  experi 
ences.  She  never  had  one  of  these  illusions  in  her 
life  —  that  is,  never  but  once,  and  then  it  was  so 
unique  that  both  of  us,  if  the  truth  be  told,  were 
a  little  bit  frightened.  It  was  while  we  were  study 
ing  at  Zurich.  The  winter  semester  had  just  ended, 
and  we  were  going  into  Italy  the  next  day  for  our 
spring  vacation.  We  both  went  to  bed  in  a  state  of 
high  excitement,  for  we  had  never  been  to  Italy,  and 
we  were  both  wild  to  go.  Charlotte's  sleeping-room 
was  next  to  mine,  and  it  was  agreed  that  I  should 
knock  on  her  door  when  I  thought  it  was  time  for 
us  to  be  getting  up,  —  the  St.  Gotthard  train  went 
rather  early  in  the  morning.  I  had  the  matter  so 
much  on  my  mind  that  I  got  awake  considerably 
earlier  than  necessary.  It  was  just  six  o'clock,  and  I 
was  not  to  call  Charlotte  until  seven.  But  I  was 
afraid  to  go  to  sleep  lest  I  should  not  waken  in  time. 
As  I  lay  there  waiting,  the  thought  suddenly  came  to 
me  as  to  whether  I  should  be  frightened  if  I  were  to 
see  my  grandfather  Percyfield  standing  at  the  foot  of 
my  bed.  It  seemed  an  altogether  foolish  thought, 

101 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


and  I  dismissed  it  as  quickly  as  I  could,  but  being 
careful  to  assure  myself  that  I  should  not  be  in  the 
least  bit  frightened.  I  am  not  at  all  superstitious, 
and  regard  signs  and  omens  as  little  as  did  Queen 
Emma  when  she  threw  her  slippers  into  Kilauea.  At 
seven  I  called  Charlotte,  and  we  both  dressed  and 
went  upstairs  to  breakfast.  Our  sleeping-rooms  were 
en  parterre,  and  we  had  pension  on  the  second  etage. 
It  was  a  scramble  to  get  off,  for  the  droschke  was  late 
in  coming  for  us ;  but,  driving  down  to  the  station, 
we  had  a  chance  to  draw  our  breath,  and  Charlotte 
said  to  me :  "  I  had  such  an  odd  experience  this  morn 
ing  !  I  could  n't  sleep,  and  while  I  was  lying  there 
in  bed  I  saw  grandfather  Percyfield  sitting  in  a  chair 
near  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  such  a  look  of  distress 
on  his  face  as  I  have  never  seen  in  all  my  life.  Do 
you  think,  kin,  that  he  can  be  ill  ?  " 

"  What  time  was  it  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  was  just  six  o'clock,"  said  Charlotte.  "  I  looked 
at  my  watch  a  moment  before.  I  was  afraid  you 
might  oversleep." 

I  am  not  ashamed  to  confess  that  I  was  startled. 
When  I  told  Charlotte  about  my  own  experience,  it 
took  the  combined  force  of  Harvard  and  Bryn  Mawr 
to  keep  us  from  being  sadly  worried.  We  watched 
the  mail  anxiously  for  the  next  two  weeks,  and  when 
the  date  of  the  home  letters  passed  the  day  of  our 
crossing  the  St.  Gotthard  without  bringing  us  any 
bad  news,  we  were  both  secretly  much  relieved.  Then 
it  was  that  Charlotte,  the  practical  one,  sat  down  and 

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ILLUSIONS 


wrote  a  full  account  of  the  matter  to  my  grandfather 
Percyfield.  She  demanded  to  know  what  wicked 
thing  he  had  been  doing  at  that  particular  hour  to 
make  his  devoted  grandchildren  so  unhappy  on  his 
account.  I  can  imagine  the  glee  with  which  my 
grandfather  Percyfield  wrote  back  to  her :  "  My  dear 
Hypatia  "  —  he  called  Charlotte  this  in  deference,  he 
said,  to  her  vast  erudition  — "  My  dear  Hypatia : 
Making  allowance  for  the  six  hours'  difference  in  time 
between  Switzerland  and  Pennsylvania,  I  can  say  with 
reasonable  certainty  that  at  the  fatal  moment  described 
so  touchingly  in  your  letter,  I  was  blissfully  sleeping 
in  my  own  bed,  in  my  own  room,  at  Uplands.  I  may 
add  that  I  was  doubtlessly  sleeping  unusually  well,  for 
I  had  been  outdoors  most  of  the  previous  day,  giving 
Peter  instructions  about  the  spring  planting.  But  I 
can  easily  explain  your  experience.  It  was  your  evil 
conscience  at  having  written  so  seldom  to  your  lonely 
old  grandfather  —  only  one  letter  a  week,  and  at  most 
not  over  eight  pages." 

After  that  we  were  careful  to  send  letters  by  both  the 
Wednesday  and  the  Saturday  steamers,  and  to  make 
the  letters  of  goodly  length.  For  once,  I  think  my 
grandfather  did  not  altogether  disapprove  of  illusions. 
Charlotte  has  never  seen  another  illusion,  unless  indeed 
before  Frederic  spoke  she  may  have  seen  the  ghosts  of 
rival  maidens,  but  if  so,  she  never  confided  the  fact 
to  me.  When  my  brave  grandfather  Percyfield  did 
come  to  die,  the  event  found  us  all  as  unprepared  as 
people  generally  are  for  any  great  sorrow. 

103 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


But  my  own  habit  of  seeing  people  at  night  has 
kept  up  with  a  persistence  worthy  of  a  better  cause. 
The  winter  after  we  went  home  from  Zurich,  the 
shadow  people  came  in  swarms.  Charlotte  and  I  had 
expected  to  stop  at  Zurich  for  two  years,  simply  re 
turning  to  Uplands  for  the  summer.  The  town  house 
had  been  rented  for  the  two  years,  as  my  mother  and 
my  grandfather  Percyfield  preferred  to  remain  at 
Uplands  all  winter.  However,  I  found  it  entirely 
possible  to  finish  my  studies  and  get  my  degree  of 
doctor  of  philosophy  at  the  end  of  the  first  year,  and 
so  Charlotte  and  I  trotted  home,  the  maiden  nothing 
loath,  I  think,  for  absence  had  made  her  fancy  set  in 
a  certain  direction  more  strongly  than  she  had  realized 
before.  But  the  people  who  had  our  town  house  re 
fused  to  give  it  up  until  the  lease  expired,  and  as 
Charlotte  was  quite  bent  on  spending  the  winter  in 
town,  my  grandfather  Percyfield  very  good-naturedly 
hired  a  furnished  house  for  four  months.  I  think  my 
mother  and  my  grandfather  Percyfield  would  have 
preferred  the  comfort  and  quiet  of  Uplands,  for  the 
year  spent  there  had  made  them  love  country  life  even 
in  winter.  It  was  difficult  to  find  a  furnished  house 
for  so  short  a  time,  and  for  lack  of  something  better 
we  had  to  settle  on  an  old  place  on  South  Broad 
Street,  just  before  you  come  to  Pine.  It  had  been 
something  of  a  house  in  its  day,  but  was  already  far 
past  its  prime.  I  had  the  third-story  front  room,  and 
one  would  have  thought  that  the  noise  there  had 
frightened  away  both  illusions  and  sleep.  Broad  Street 

104 


ILLUSIONS 


at  that  time  was  paved  with  Belgian  blocks,  and  was  not 
desirable  for  residence.  However,  we  had  hardly  got 
settled  in  the  place  before  I  began  to  have  nocturnal 
visitors  at  a  rate  that  was  absolutely  annoying.  Not 
only  old  men  and  young  men,  but  even  whole  families 
came  to  visit  me.  Before  that  I  had  never  seen  more 
than  one  person  at  a  time.  And  the  bother  was  that 
they  came  night  after  night,  until  I  got  into  the 
way  of  expecting  them.  I  would  go  to  sleep  without 
the  least  trouble,  but  after  what  seemed  to  me  about 
half  an  hour,  I  was  sure  to  be  wakened.  Sometimes 
I  would  find  as  many  as  four  persons  regarding  me 
with  the  utmost  attention.  One  night,  I  remember, 
a  gentle,  sweet-faced  woman  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  and  near  her  a  young  man  who  was  perhaps  her 
son.  A  young  girl  was  by  the  bureau,  and  over  in 
the  corner,  my  customary  old  man.  It  was  a  curious 
counterpart  of  our  own  family  group.  But  not  one 
of  the  faces  was  familiar,  nor  do  I  remember  ever  to 
have  seen  any  of  them  since.  The  four  of  them  were 
absolutely  staring  at  me.  It  was  quite  enough  to 
make  a  sensitive  man  waken.  When  I  sat  up  and  de 
manded  impatiently  to  know  what  they  wanted,  they 
showed  not  the  slightest  embarrassment,  but  simply 
dissolved  where  they  stood,  —  not  a  word,  not  a  ges 
ture,  nothing  but  that  intense  regard  directed  always 
towards  myself. 

These  illusions  are  well  bred  in  one  respect,  —  they 
never  turn  their  backs  to  me.  In  fact  they  never  even 
show  me  their  side  faces.  Nor  do  they  investigate  my 

105 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


belongings.  It  would  be  a  very  subtle  compliment  if  I 
could  ever  find  them  looking  over  my  manuscripts, 
but  apparently  these  have  no  interest  for  the  shadow 
people.  They  always  look  at  me  directly,  square  and 
full  in  the  face,  a  regular  broadside  of  illusion. 

They  have  another  courtesy  which  makes  them  less 
uncanny  than  they  would  otherwise  be,  —  they  always 
stick  to  the  floor,  and  have  a  proper  respect  for  the 
furniture.  If  one  of  them  stands  at  the  foot  of  my 
bed,  I  see  only  that  part  of  him  which  comes  above 
the  footboard.  It  would  be  much  more  disturbing  if 
the  shadow  people  plastered  themselves  over  the  walls 
and  furniture  like  so  many  posters.  I  am  touched  by 
this  observance  of  the  conventionalities.  Only  once 
was  it  broken.  Then  I  woke  to  find  the  body  of  a 
man  projecting  from  the  headboard  above  me,  the 
face,  as  usual,  regarding  me  intently.  I  confess  that 
this  displeased  me.  It  was  at  the  old  house  on  South 
Broad  Street,  but  it  never  happened  a  second  time. 

About  that  time,  it  chanced  that  we  had  two  callers 
one  evening  who  stopped  with  us  rather  late.  One 
was  a  beautiful  Southern  woman,  Mrs.  Foster,  who 
admired  Charlotte  very  much,  and  was  incidentally  a 
friend  of  mine.  The  other  was  an  old  gentleman, 
Dr.  Granger,  who  was  somewhat  interested  in  psycho 
logy.  Poor  Charlotte  was  growing  perceptibly  sleepy. 
We  had  turned  down  the  lights  and  were  sitting 
around  the  open  fire.  It  does  make  you  sleepy  to  do 
this,  if  there  is  nothing  very  exciting  to  keep  you 
awake,  and  Charlotte  had  nodded  several  times.  By 

106 


ILLUSIONS 


way  of  coming  to  the  rescue,  I  told  Mrs.  Foster  and 
Dr.  Granger  about  my  shadow  people,  for  they  had 
just  made  a  great  record,  coming  every  single  night 
for  two  weeks  running.  Both  of  our  friends  were 
much  interested,  Dr.  Granger  making  a  few  rough 
notes  as  I  went  on  with  the  account,  and  Mrs.  Foster 
looking  at  me  with  such  a  long  focus  to  her  eyes  that 
she  seemed  to  be  seeing  all  the  visitors  that  I  was  tell 
ing  her  about.  When  I  finished  speaking,  Mrs.  Foster 
said  to  me,  very  earnestly,  — 

"You  must  not  see  these  things,  Mr.  Percyfield, 
you  really  must  not ;  it  is  not  good  for  you.  You  are 
abnormally  sensitive.  I  am  afraid  you  are  working 
too  hard.  You  ought  to  take  more  exercise.  Really, 
my  friend,  you  must  not  see  them." 

This  fiction  on  the  part  of  my  friends  that  I  must 
be  working  too  hard  started  when  I  was  a  youngster, 
and  has  followed  me  all  through  my  life.  Even  my 
clear-sighted  grandfather  Percyfield  fell  a  victim  to 
it.  I  am  occupied  all  the  time,  of  course,  for  it  would 
be  very  stupid  not  to  be,  but  in  one  sense  I  never  do 
a  stroke  of  work.  My  occupations  are  all  of  my  own 
choosing,  the  things  I  want  to  do,  and  that  is  not 
work,  it 's  the  most  enlightened  sort  of  play.  Mrs. 
Foster's  earnestness  surprised  me,  and  I  said,  — 

"  Why  not,  Mrs.  Foster  ?  They  seem  well-bred  peo 
ple.  I  have  nothing  against  them  save  that  they 
waken  me  out  of  a  sound  sleep,  and  do  not  answer 
when  they  are  spoken  to.  Who  do  you  suppose  they 
are,  modern  Trappists  sworn  to  silence  ?  " 

107 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


"  Hardly  that,"  said  Mrs.  Foster.  "  You  will  perhaps 
not  agree  with  me,  but  they  are  the  astral  bodies  of  peo 
ple  who  have  lived  in  this  old  house  before  you  came  to 
it.  You  ought  not  to  see  them.  It  is  only  when  you  are 
in  a  hypersensitive  state  that  you  have  the  power." 

"  It  must  have  been  a  boarding-house,  then,"  said 
Charlotte,  "  for  John  sees  such  a  crew  of  them." 

I  laughed  softly,  but  I  did  not  express  my  full  in 
credulity,  thinking  that  it  would  hardly  be  polite.  I 
do  not  myself  at  all  believe  in  these  astral  bodies  of 
Mrs.  Foster. 

My  mode  of  coming  to  the  rescue  was  a  conspicu 
ous  failure,  for  both  Dr.  Granger  and  Mrs.  Foster  re 
mained  until  midnight.  When  they  left,  Mrs.  Foster 
said  to  me  with  the  same  earnestness,  "  Remember, 
you  are  not  going  to  see  any  one  to-night ; "  and  I 
answered  gayly,  "  You  must  keep  them  off,  then." 

And  sure  enough,  I  had  no  visitors  that  night, 
or,  indeed,  for  about  two  weeks  after.  The  follow 
ing  day  I  had  a  note  from  Mrs.  Foster,  written  in 
the  same  earnest  spirit,  and  urging  me  not  to  see 
the  shadow  people,  —  quite  as  if  I  had  elected  to  be 
wakened  every  night.  In  truth,  I  was  very  glad  to 
be  rid  of  them.  The  next  time  I  saw  Mrs.  Foster  I 
told  her  they  had  gone,  and  asked  what  she  had  done 
to  frighten  them,  and  whether,  like  David,  she  played 
the  harp  when  the  cloud  pressed  heavily  on  Saul.  You 
remember  that  Mr.  Browning  has  told  the  story  very 
beautifully  in  his  poem  of  Saul.  But  Mrs.  Foster 
only  laughed. 

108 


ILLUSIONS 


However,  either  the  harp-playing  ceased,  or  it  grew 
to  be  no  longer  effective.  The  shadow  people  never 
came  back  in  such  full  force  as  they  did  on  South 
Broad  Street,  and  now  they  have  the  decency  to 
come  one  or  at  most  two  at  a  time,  but  they  have 
never  ceased  to  come,  not  even,  as  I  have  been  telling 
you,  in  this  delightful  old  Chateau  on  the  shore  of 
Leman. 

The  duke  of  Savoy,  in  his  plaid  or  in  his  velvet,  is 
a  very  distinct  figure,  though  no  more  so  than  the 
humble  fellow  who  once  investigated  me  in  a  sleeping- 
car  out  in  the  Rocky  Mountains.  I  was  going  from 
Colorado  Springs  to  Salt  Lake  City.  The  train  was 
crowded.  I  could  get  no  berth  in  the  regular  sleeper, 
and  indeed  hardly  a  seat  in  the  ordinary  coach.  Some 
wedding-journeyers  whom  I  had  seen  at  the  Springs 
advised  me,  since  I  could  not  very  well  stop  off  at 
Glen  wood,  to  take  the  "  tourist  "  sleeper  that  is  put  on 
at  Leadville.  I  had  never  heard  of  a  tourist  sleeper, 
and  being  a  Philadelphian,  I  had  our  traditional  preju 
dice  against  the  unknown.  This  feeling  is  very  strong 
at  home.  Some  of  my  fellow  townsmen  do  not  even 
want  to  die.  So  I  merely  said  that  I  would  look  at  the 
tourist  sleeper.  I  found  a  very  shabby  car,  with  cane 
seats  and  bare  floor,  and  "  second-class  "  written  very 
large  all  over  it.  It  was  not  the  sort  of  an  affair  that 
the  Percyfields  commonly  travel  in.  I  stuck  up  my 
nose  and  said  I  'd  have  none  of  it.  But  when  night 
came  on,  the  old  men  in  my  car  were  taking  off  their 
shoes,  and  the  chicken  bones  gathered  on  the  floor, 

109 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


and  the  babies  began  and  continued  to  howl,  poor 
little  souls,  and  altogether  things  became  pretty  bad. 
I  was  less  high  and  mighty  than  I  had  been  at  Lead- 
ville,  and  went  back  to  the  tourist  sleeper  to  say  that 
I  would  graciously  take  a  berth.  By  that  time  all 
the  lower  berths  were  taken,  which  served  me  quite 
right,  and  I  was  obliged,  in  a  very  humble  frame  of 
mind  indeed,  to  climb  into  an  upper  berth.  I  must 
say,  parenthetically,  that  I  found  it  very  clean  and 
comfortable.  I  went  to  sleep  at  once,  for  all  day  long  I 
had  been  staring  at  the  Royal  Gorge  and  other  bits  of 
remarkable  scenery,  and  I  was  tired.  But  very  soon 
I  was  wakened  by  finding  a  rough-looking  fellow  bend 
ing  over  me.  He  seemed  to  be  standing  on  the  edge 
of  the  lower  berth,  and  had  parted  the  curtains  so  that 
the  upper  part  of  his  body  was  literally  in  my  berth. 
His  hands  rested  on  the  edge  of  the  wooden  side-piece. 
He  wore  a  checked  shirt  made  of  coarse  cotton  cloth ; 
they  call  it  hickory  in  the  South.  The  sleeves  were 
rolled  up  to  the  elbows,  disclosing  hairy,  freckled  arms. 
The  shirt  was  open  at  the  throat,  showing  more  hair  and 
freckles.  The  man  himself  was  good-natured  enough 
looking.  He  had  a  large,  rough  face,  with  sandy 
beard  and  reddish  hair.  I  took  him  to  be  a  miner,  or 
perhaps  merely  a  prospector.  In  spite  of  his  good 
nature,  however,  his  intrusion  seemed  to  me  a  piece 
of  very  great  impertinence.  I  reached  instinctively 
for  my  coat  to  see  that  my  wallet  was  still  safe.  I 
had  put  the  coat  between  me  and  the  back  of  the 
bunk.  Then  I  turned  to  demand  an  explanation,  — 

110 


ILLUSIONS 


the  curtains  were  fastened  on  the  inside  and  fell  in 
straight  folds  :  there  was  no  one  there. 

I  confess  that  this  mining  person  falls  in  very  cred 
itably  with  Mrs.  Foster's  theory.  He  was  just  such  a 
looking  fellow  as  had  probably  slept  in  that  bunk  of 
mine  in  the  tourist  sleeper  not  many  nights  before. 
Any  image  stamping  itself  on  the  entangled  ether 
would  be  much  more  likely  to  be  a  prospector  than  a 
Percyfield. 

I  have  myself  no  very  satisfactory  theory  about 
these  illusions,  except  to  believe,  of  course,  that  they 
have  existence  only  in  my  own  head.  I  fancy  other 
people  have  them  too,  though  I  never  happen  to  have 
met  any  one  with  such  a  large  circle  of  dumb  admirers. 
Charlotte  says  they  are  a  stupid  lot  never  to  tell  me 
anything,  and  half  believes,  I  think,  that  she  could 
manage  them  to  more  purpose.  I  should  be  very  glad 
to  give  her  the  chance,  but  apparently  the  shadow 
people  have  no  mind  to  be  passed  around. 

I  think  the  whole  thing  is  due  to  a  visualizing  type 
of  mind.  When  one  sees  the  world  in  a  series  of  vivid 
pictures,  a  gayly  colored  panorama,  it  is  easily  think 
able  that  on  wakening  suddenly  from  sleep  and  before 
the  faculties  are  well  in  hand,  there  should  be  this 
projecting  of  images  on  the  screen  of  the  physically 
seen.  It  is  odd,  however,  that  these  illusions  should 
waken  me  out  of  sound  sleep  by  that  sense  of  personal 
intrusion,  and  odd,  too,  that  they  should  always  obey 
gravitation  and  optics ;  that  is,  that  they  should  always 
stand  on  the  floor,  and  should  always  respect  the  fur- 
Ill 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


niture  so  scrupulously.  In  the  matter  of  costume, 
they  follow  the  fashion  of  the  country.  In  Rome,  I 
see  peasant  women  and  their  children  in  gay  Roman 
scarfs  ;  in  Colorado,  a  prospector ;  in  Switzerland,  a 
gentleman  in  sober  doublet.  But  in  spite  of  these 
minor  difficulties,  I  never  for  a  moment  doubt  the  sub 
jective  character  of  my  visitors. 

One  experience,  however,  I  did  have,  that  I  have 
never  been  able  to  explain,  and  that  remains  to  this 
day  a  mystery.  I  was  sitting  one  evening  in  front  of 
the  table  in  my  study  at  Uplands.  It  was  the  large 
garret  room  that  I  have  already  mentioned.  I  had  been 
reading  all  the  latter  part  of  the  evening  and  had 
been  tremendously  interested  in  the  content  of  my 
book.  I  was  not,  I  think,  at  all  sleepy.  I  stopped 
my  reading  chiefly  because  I  heard  the  hall  clock 
downstairs  strike  twelve,  and  I  knew  that  I  ought  to 
be  in  bed.  I  shut  the  book,  and  sat  for  a  moment  in 
my  large  armchair,  with  my  hands  up  to  my  head. 
Quite  without  warning  or  preface  of  any  kind,  I  sud 
denly  found  myself,  that  is,  my  thinking  self,  entirely 
outside  of  my  body  and  entirely  detached  from  it  save 
by  a  slender  bond  on  the  left  side.  I  saw  my  body 
sitting  there  in  the  armchair,  complete  from  head  to 
foot,  sharp  and  distinct,  save  the  slight  obscureness 
on  the  left  side.  And  then  I  saw  around  the  body, 
projecting  from  it  six  or  eight  inches,  I  should  say,  a 
slightly  luminous  gray  cloud.  It  had  the  enlarged 
form  of  the  body  and  enveloped  it  completely.  I  was 
greatly  astonished  at  what  I  saw,  and  particularly  at 

112 


ILLUSIONS 


the  luminous  gray  cloud.  I  cried  out,  —  but  whether 
aloud  or  to  myself,  I  know  not,  —  "  It  is  the  Soul."  I 
let  my  hands  drop  into  my  lap ;  I  was  sitting  in  the 
armchair  before  my  study  table. 

The  United  Kingdom  are  collectively  interested  in 
these  illusions  and  ask  repeatedly  if  the  duke  has 
made  another  visit.  They  care  more  for  him  than 
they  do  for  my  Colorado  prospector.  Mademoiselle 
de  Candolle  is  interested  in  quite  a  different  way. 
She  looks  at  me  kindly  and  says  in  her  low,  gentle 
voice,  "  Monsieur,  the  veil  between  you  and  the  un 
seen  world  is  slight.  You  have  a  peculiar  organiza 
tion,  very  sensitive.  You  must  guard  it." 

But  for  myself,  I  do  not  know  about  these  things. 


113 


CHAPTER  V 

IN   THE  DRAWING-ROOM 

IT  is  the  twelfth  of  December,  the  fete  of  the  Es 
calade,  when  the  Genevois  celebrate  the  repulse  of  the 
Savoyards  some  three  hundred  years  ago.  By  a  curi 
ous  irony  of  fate,  the  present  Savoyards  fetch  down 
fat  turkeys  from  Haute-Savoie,  and  sell  them  to  their 
ancient  enemies,  and  present  richer  neighbors,  the 
Genevois.  It  is  a  little  hard  to  have  to  supply  the 
feast  with  which  to  make  merry  over  your  own  discom 
fiture. 

We  are  much  too  patriotic  at  the  Chateau  to  let  the 
day  pass  unobserved.  We  celebrate  it  in  our  owrs 
way.  Instead  of  masks  and  discordant  trumpets,  wC 
dress  for  dinner  and  decorate  the  Chateau  with  th^ 
last  of  our  roses  and  chrysanthemums.  We  twine 
ivy  and  hang  mistletoe  over  the  fireplace.  Where  we 
can,  we  put  a  touch  of  red,  the  flaming  berries  of  the 
mountain  ash,  and  great  branches  of  cardinal  maple 
leaves.  The  Chateau  is  a  gay  sight,  this  fete  of  the 
Escalade.  Mademoiselle  de  Candolle  wears  her  pur 
ple  velvet  waist  with  the  ruby-red  jewel  of  her  great- 
grandmothers.  The  United  Kingdom  is  in  full  dress : 
Ireland  in  an  ancient  mauve-colored  silk,  with  her 
triple  string  of  pearls ;  England  majestic  in  black 

114 


IN  THE   DRAWING-ROOM 


velvet  and  old  lace ;  Scotland  problematical  in  a 
white  gown  with  gold  threads.  I  have  put  on  my  best 
dress  suit,  and  in  my  buttonhole  display  a  touch  of 
home  in  the  crimson  button  of  my  dear  university. 
We  have  a  double  allowance  of  candles  on  the  dinner 
table,  and  on  the  side  tables  there  are  several  lamps 
burning.  It  is  a  pretty  sight. 

We  are  all  of  us  in  holiday  mood,  and  drink  our 
toasts  in  high  spirits,  first  to  the  Chatelaine  and  to  the 
eternal  liberty  of  her  brave  Switzerland,  and  then  to 
the  United  Kingdom  and  to  their  beloved  sovereign. 
Finally  it  is  my  turn,  and  England,  with  a  truly 
charming  graciousness,  begs  that  I  will  frame  the  toast 
myself,  as  they  would  wish  me  what  I  should  most 
wish  for  myself.  I  spring  to  my  feet,  flushed  with 
something  better  than  wine,  and  holding  my  glass  on 
high,  cry  out,  — 

"  To  the  Great  Republic !  May  she  realize  demo 
cracy  and  lead  in  the  federation  of  the  nations." 

The  ladies  rise,  too,  and  drink  my  toast  in  all  sin 
cerity,  these  old  aristocrats,  but  it  is  because  they  are 
fond  of  me  rather  than  of  democracy.  The  Chatelaine 
alone  understands. 

Our  glasses  are  large  and  there  is  still  some  good 
red  wine  in  the  bottom  of  them.  I  ask  a  final  toast, 
—  "  To  those  we  love."  We  drink  in  silence,  each 
thinking  his  own  thoughts,  I  of  Charlotte  and  of 
Margaret,  the  elder  women  of  memories,  while  Scotland 
looks  at  me  and  thinks  of  heaven  knows  what  bare 
legged  laird. 

115 


JOHN   PEKCYFIELD 


After  dinner  we  go  into  the  drawing-room,  carrying 
the  lamps  and  the  vases  of  flowers  with  us.  We  distribute 
them  advantageously  about  the  room.  Then  the  heavy 
red  curtains  are  drawn  in  front  of  the  great  windows 
and  we  look  as  cosy  as  you  please.  I  can't  help  wish 
ing  that  Charlotte  were  here  to  see  it.  The  Chatelaine 
has  a  glorious  fire  made  on  the  hearth,  not  a  little 
tuppenny  blaze  of  dried  leaves,  and  twigs  as  thick  as 
a  slate  pencil,  but  a  genuine  fire  of  great  oak  logs 
that  sends  the  flames  rushing  and  roaring  up  the  chim 
ney  the  way  they  do  at  Uplands.  The  drawing-room 
is  absolutely  hot ;  I  think  it  must  be  at  least  sixty-five 
degrees  Fahrenheit.  It  is  only  in  the  most  distant 
corners  that  you  can  see  your  breath. 

We  make  a  wide  circle  around  the  chimney-place, 
and  as  master  of  ceremonies  I  am  allowed  to  dispose 
the  ladies  in  chairs  that  will  go  well  with  the  color  of 
their  gowns.  I  put  Ireland  into  a  pale  blue  chair 
with  spindling  French  legs.  It  just  suits  her,  for  I 
always  think  of  her  as  pale  blue.  England  goes  into 
a  gorgeous  highbacked  chair,  covered  with  bright  red 
stuff  that  matches  her  ruddy  cheeks.  The  seat  is  high 
and  I  insist  on  adding  a  footstool.  She  looks  majestic, 
the  very  picture  of  triumphant  imperialism.  It  needs 
only  a  lot  of  squirming,  miserable  folk  under  the  chair 
to  make  the  picture  complete,  but  this  part  of  my 
thought  I  keep  to  myself.  Scotland  goes  into  the 
most  non-committal  chair  I  can  find,  one  of  those  that 
have  quite  lost  their  original  color  and  pattern,  for  I 
cannot  make  Scotland  out  at  all.  I  have  no  such 

116 


IN  THE   DRAWING-ROOM 


trouble  with  the  Chatelaine.  I  fetch  her  a  solid  arm 
chair  done  in  a  warm,  rich  green.  She  fits  it  perfectly. 
Then  I  give  a  final  touch  to  the  lamps,  and  join  the 
circle  myself,  with  a  sigh  of  large  content. 

But  it  seems  that  my  duties  are  far  from  being  over. 
England  from  her  height  calls  over  to  me,  "  Do  tell 
us  some  of  your  American  anecdotes,  Mr.  Percyfield, 
one  of  those  coincidences,  like  the  story  of  Mrs.  Lewis's 
samovar.  We  must  have  some  bright  talk,  must  n't 
we,  to  match  the  gay  picture  you  have  made  of  us." 

A  spirit  of  mischief  seizes  me,  and  I  answer,  "  Very 
well,  Madame,  your  word  is  law.  You  have  proba 
bly  heard  of  my  distinguished  fellow  townsman,  Mr. 
George  Washington  Childs,  —  yes,  the  one  who  gave 
the  fountain  or  the  window  or  something  or  other  to 
Stratford-on-Avon.  Well,  when  he  was  a  little  boy, 
he  lived  in  Baltimore.  He  was  quite  poor,  I  believe, 
and  had  to  sell  newspapers  for  a  living.  One  day,  he 
received  a  curious  looking  penny  for  one  of  his  papers. 
It  was  so  curious  that  he  put  a  little  private  mark  on 
it  before  he  spent  it  for  a  hot  bun,  wondering  whether 
it  would  ever  come  back  to  him.  Well,  years  after 
wards  when  he  had  moved  to  Philadelphia  and  grown 
very  rich,  he  had  occasion  one  day  to  go  over  to 
Camden  on  the  ferryboat.  The  fare  is  three  cents, 
and  Mr.  Childs  gave  the  gatekeeper  a  nickel,  —  a 
five-cent  piece,  you  know  —  and  got  back  two  cents  in 
change.  Mr.  Childs  looked  carefully  at  the  pennies, 
and  what  do  you  think  "  — 

"  Well,"  says  England,  "  I  think  your  friends  have 
117 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


more  queer  things  happening  to  them  than  any  peo 
ple  I  know." 

"Yes,  it  was  queer,"  I  answer  demurely,  "but 
neither  penny  was  the  marked  one." 

"  You  're  a  dreadful  man,  Mr.  Percyfield,"  says 
England,  trying  to  look  severe,  "  to  take  in  a  couple 
of  old  women  that  way,"  —  no  one  ever  thinks  of  the 
Chatelaine  as  old.  "  I  don't  like  such  nonsense.  Tell 
us  a  good  story,  something  true." 

So  I  begin  again,  assuring  England  that  this  time 
the  story  shall  be  true. 

"  Honor  bright  ?  "  says  England. 

"  Honor  bright !  "  I  answer,  my  hand  on  my 
heart ;  and  then  I  proceed :  "  I  was  once  walking 
through  the  Yellowstone  Park.  It  was  the  last  day 
of  my  walk.  I  left  the  regular  stage  road  at  the 
Grand  Canon  Hotel,  at  the  Falls  of  the  Yellowstone, 
you  know,  and  took  the  trail  around  Mt.  Washburn, 
to  Yancey's  Camp.  It  was  a  matter  of  about  twenty- 
four  miles,  and  I  allowed  the  whole  day  for  it.  After 
I  got  clear  of  the  hotel,  I  did  not  see  a  soul  until  I 
reached  Yancey's  at  five  o'clock  that  afternoon." 

"  And  were  n't  you  afraid  ?  "  asks  England. 

"Of  what?"  I  ask,  looking  as  much  surprised  as 
a  dragoon  does  when  you  ask  him,  perchance,  if  he 
minds  being  shot. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Of  Indians,  perhaps,  or  of 
robbers." 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  answer ;  "  Indians  are  very  scarce 
in  America,  They  have  been  mostly  picked  up  for 

118 


IN  THE  DRAWING-KOOM 


wild  west  shows  and  museums.  In  fact,  they  are  al 
most  as  rare  as  a  workingman  at  a  university  exten 
sion  lecture.  And  as  for  robbers,  they  could  never 
afford  such  a  lonely  place.  I  think  I  was  the  only 
man  who  crossed  the  trail  that  year." 

"It  sounds  dreadfully  lonely,"  says  England,  while 
Ireland  draws  her  chair  perceptibly  nearer  to  the  fire. 

"  It  did  not  seem  lonely  to  me,"  I  answer,  enthu 
siastically  ;  "  I  never  had  such  a  day.  It  gives  me  a 
thrill  even  to  think  of  it.  I  was  absolutely  alone  with 
Nature.  It  was  a  red-letter  day." 

England  is  still  doubtful,  and  asks  nervously,  "  Did 
you  have  a  pistol  ?  Were  there  no  wild  animals  to 
fear,  no  panthers  or  bears  or  anything  of  that  sort  ?  " 

"  No,  Madame,  I  never  carry  a  pistol,"  I  answer, 
"  and  beyond  being  a  little  watchful,  I  had  no  fear  of 
the  animals.  The  grizzlies  were  all  up  on  the  ridges 
trying  to  keep  cool,  and  I  did  n't  see  one.  A  beauti 
ful  silver-haired  fox  crossed  my  path,  and  I  saw  a 
couple  of  deer  in  the  distance,  but  these,  with  a  fret 
ful  porcupine,  were  the  only  things  stirring.  But  to  go 
on  with  my  story.  After  I  got  several  miles  out  from 
the  hotel,  the  trail  became  rather  indistinct  and  scat 
tered,  and  I  began  to  think  that  I  had  been  careless 
not  to  have  brought  my  compass  along.  It  was  in  my 
trunk  at  Cinnabar.  But  the  compass  was  Swiss,  and 
rather  heavy" — it  was  the  one  I  had  shown  to  Fri- 
dolin  —  "  so  I  left  it  behind.  A  few  minutes  later  I 
chanced  to  look  down  on  the  trail  and  there  was  a  lit 
tle  round  object  shining  in  the  sun.  I  stooped  and 

119 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


picked  it  up.  It  was  a  compass.  Evidently  it  had 
fallen  from  some*  one's  watch  chain,  for  it  showed  the 
mark  of  where  a  ring  had  once  been  attached  to  it. 
When  I  got  to  Yancey's  I  made  inquiries  and  found 
that  a  company  of  cavalry  officers  had  gone  over  the 
trail  on  horseback  the  preceding  summer.  The  com 
pass  had  been  there  waiting  for  me  nearly  a  year." 

"  How  providential ! "  exclaims  Ireland. 

"  What  did  your  friends  say  ? "  asks  England. 
"  They  must  think  you  lead  a  charmed  life." 

"  One  man  in  Philadelphia,  to  whom  I  told  the 
story,  looked  at  me  and  said,  '  Percyfield,  I  'm  a 
pretty  good  liar  myself.'  " 

Ireland  and  the  Chatelaine  laugh  softly,  and  Scot 
land  fairly  snickers ;  but  England,  whose  sense  of 
humor  is  still  rudimentary,  says  gravely,  "  How  very 
rude.  I  hope  you  showed  him  the  compass." 

"  Unfortunately,  Madame,  that  was  impossible.  It 
was  stolen  from  me  the  following  evening." 

"  Stolen  ?  "  cry  the  four  ladies  in  concert,  and  even 
the  apathetic  Scotland  is  curious  to  know  how  that 
came  to  be. 

It  is  a  holiday  and  I  might  as  well  tell  them  the 
story.  It  is  one  of  those  queer  experiences  that  sel 
dom  come  to  a  man  in  our  day,  and  having  come, 
make  him  feel  that  he  wants  to  share  it  with  others, 
—  not  egotistically,  I  think,  for  I  could  in  no  sense  be 
called  the  hero  of  the  tale,  but  simply  to  carry  out  the 
Golden  Rule,  and  tell  a  good  story  to  others  as  you 
would  like  them  to  tell  one  to  you. 

120 


IN  THE  DKAWTNG-ROOM 


The  Chatelaine  has  another  generous  log  put  on  the 
fire ;  the  ladies  settle  themselves  to  listen,  and  I  be 
gin.  But  England  must  first  ask  if  it  is  surely  a  true 
story,  and  I  assure  her,  honor  bright,  that  it  is.  Then 
Scotland  wants  to  know  if  it 's  pathetic,  and  if  she  had 
better  take  out  her  mouchoir.  I  answer  wickedly  that 
it  would  be  to  a  Scotsman,  for  I  lost  two  hundred  and 
fifty  francs  by  the  adventure.  But  Scotland  com 
pletely  ignores  the  thrust,  and  says,  the  way  she  inva 
riably  does  when  any  sum  of  money  is  mentioned, 
"Two  hundred  and  fifty  francs,  that  would  be  a  bit 
over  ten  pounds,  would  n't  it  ?  " 

"  We  must  usually  pay  for  our  experience,  must  n't 
we  ?  "  adds  England,  by  way  of  comfort.  I  used  to 
think  that  these  little  interrogations  on  the  end  of  so 
many  of  England's  sentences  required  an  answer,  but 
I  notice  that  her  countrywomen  never  attend  to  this 
conversational  fringe,  and  I  have  fallen  into  their  way 
of  ignoring  it.  Then  England  says,  "  But  please  go 
on,  Mr.  Percyfield,"  evidently  forgetting  that  it  was 
she  who  headed  me  off  in  the  first  place.  So  I  begin 
again. 

"  I  spent  that  night  at  Yancey's  Camp  "  — 

"  And  did  you  have  no  adventures  there  ? "  inter 
rupts  Scotland,  with  such  a  fine  touch  of  irony  in  her 
voice  that  it  escapes  all  but  myself. 

"  None  to  speak  of,"  I  reply,  imperturbably,  "  ex 
cept  that  the  log  house  was  a  little  noisy.  There  were 
some  drunken  soldiers  there,  but  they  were  more  un 
kind  to  themselves  than  to  me."  —  Charlotte  says  that 

121 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


these  little  moral  remarks  of  mine  are  not  calculated 
to  help  on  the  cause,  but  Miss  Polyhymnia  holds  that 
it  makes  life  more  picturesque  to  have  it  "  annotated." 
—  "I  thought  at  first  that  I  was  going  to  have  a  little 
trouble,  but  I  got  through  the  night  all  right.  The 
next  morning  I  walked  to  the  Mammoth  Springs 
Hotel  and  caught  the  stage  for  Cinnabar.  There  I 
took  the  railroad  up  to  Livingston,  and  at  seven 
o'clock  that  evening  I  boarded  the  eastbound  express. 
It  was  called  an  express,  but  it  reminded  me  of  what 
Mark  Twain  said  about  our  Swiss  trains.  He  was 
walking,  and  got  tired,  so  he  took  the  train,  thereby 
losing  considerable  time.  The  overland  express  bowled 
along  at  the  rate  of  at  least  twenty  miles  an  hour.  But 
it  was  very  comfortable,  quite  like  a  good  hotel  on 
wheels.  I  had  dinner  in  the  dining-car,  and  got  a 
good  lower  berth  in  the  sleeper.  I  was  rather  tired, 
for  you  see  I  had  walked  over  one  hundred  and  sixty 
miles  in  the  preceding  five  days." 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  are  thin,"  says  England. 

"  Slender,  if  you  please,  Madame,"  I  suggest,  by 
way  of  correction,  for  I  like  to  be  called  slender,  but  not 
thin.  England  accepts  the  amendment,  and  I  go  on. 
"  I  went  to  bed  shortly  after  dinner,  but  I  did  not  go 
to  sleep.  I  lay  there  thinking  how  very  comfortable 
I  was.  It  must  have  been  about  nine  o'clock  when 
the  train  came  to  a  sudden  stop.  I  lifted  my  window 
shade  and  looked  out  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  It 
was  bright  moonlight,  but  we  were  in  a  low  cut,  and  I 
could  see  nothing  of  the  surrounding  country,  or  any 

122 


IN  THE  DKAWING-ROOM 


cause  for  our  stopping.  A  nervous  woman  in  the  sec 
tion  ahead  of  mine  called  out,  c  My  God,  we  're  being 
held  up/  but  I  didn't  for  a  moment  believe  her.  I 
thought  to  myself,  4  You  poor,  nervous  thing,  you 
ought  not  to  travel  in  the  West.'  Then  I  pulled  down 
my  window  shade  and  thought  I  would  go  to  sleep. 
But  it  turned  out  that  the  nervous  woman  was  right, 
and  we  were  being  4  held  up.'  In  a  moment  I  heard  a 
number  of  pistol  shots,  and  the  colored  porter  cried 
out  to  us,  4  You  'd  better  all  lie  mighty  still.  If  you 
git  up,  you  may  git  shot ! '  I  learned  afterwards  that 
the  porter  had  been  in  four  hold-ups,  three  in  one 
year,  and  had  learned  to  take  them  calmly.  It  was 
my  own  first  experience.  I  stopped  in  my  berth,  as 
you  English  would  say,  but  the  nervous  woman  stuck 
her  head  out  of  the  window  and  screamed.  It  was  a 
silly  thing  to  do  and  came  near  to  costing  us  dear. 
The  highwaymen  were  hammering  away  at  the  express 
car  in  the  front  of  the  train,  and  the  firing  we  heard 
was  the  skirmish  between  them  and  the  plucky  express 
agent.  But  one  of  them,  hearing  the  scream,  took  his 
rifle  and  deliberately  fired  at  the  nervous  woman's 
window."  — 

"  How  dreadful,"  cries  the  Chatelaine. 

"  Did  it  kill  her  ?  "  asks  the  practical  Scotland. 

"  No,  it  did  n't  kill  her,  but  it  came  near  to  killing 
some  one  else.  You  see  the  outlaw  was  so  far  front 
that  the  train  was  greatly  foreshortened,  and  the  bul 
let  missed  the  nervous  woman's  window  entirely.  It 
passed  through  one  corner  of  my  own  section,  and 

123 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


buried  itself  in  the  woodwork  just  two  inches  above 
the  head  of  the  man  in  the  section  back  of  me.  He 
dug  the  bullet  out  afterwards  and  took  it  home  with 
him  as  a  memento  of  western  travel." 

"  Were  n't  you  frightened  ? "  asks  Scotland,  and 
this  time  without  any  irony. 

"Thoroughly  frightened,"  I  answer,  quite  una 
bashed.  "  I  had  never  been  under  fire  before,  and 
it  is  not  a  pleasant  sensation.  You  see  there  is  no 
chance  for  action.  If  you  lie  still  you  may  get  shot, 
and  if  you  get  up  you  may  get  shot.  It  is  stupid  in 
either  case." 

"  Mon  Dieu,  what  a  terrible  moment ! "  says  the 
Chatelaine  ;  "  and  what  did  you  think  of  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  was  curious,  but  you  see  I  was  very  full 
of  my  walk,  and  my  first  thought  was  that  I  hoped  I 
should  not  be  shot  in  the  leg  and  get  lamed,  so  that  I 
could  not  walk  any  more." 

"  And  then  ?  "  asks  England,  solemnly. 

44  Afterwards,  I  remember  hoping  that  if  I  got  shot 
at  all  it  would  kill  me  outright,  and  not  give  me  a 
nasty  wound." 

"And  aren't  you  afraid  to  die?"  continues  Eng 
land  in  the  same  solemn  way.  Apparently  she  thinks 
that  we  radicals  are  great  sinners,  all  of  us,  and  must 
be  covertly  apprehensive  of  our  end. 

44  No,  Madame,"  I  answer,  simply  and  honestly,  "  I 
am  not  afraid  to  die.  I  am  a  democrat,  and  believe 
in  justice,  here  and  later,  not  crowns  for  some  and  hard 
knocks  for  the  rest,  but  God's  love  and  truth  for  all." 

124 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM 


England  looks  at  me  quizzically,  and  for  a  moment 
there  is  silence.  It  is  Scotland  who  breaks  it  to  ask 
that  the  story  may  go  on. 

"  Well,"  I  continue,  "  there  was  more  firing  in  the 
front,  and  the  outlaws  finally  overcame  the  express 
agent.  But  they  could  not  blow  open  the  safe,  and  so 
they  decided  to  go  through  the  train.  The  word  was 
passed  along  from  car  to  car,  and  so  we  had  some  time 
to  get  ready  for  them.  I  was  quite  willing  that  they 
should  have  my  money  provided  they  would  leave  me 
my  legs  and  my  watch.  The  watch  had  belonged  to 
my  grandfather  Percyfield,  and  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  come  what  would,  I  simply  could  not  lose  it." 

"  What  did  you  do  with  it  ?  "  asks  the  Chatelaine, 
interested,  like  all  the  Genevois,  in  watches. 

"  I  put  it  under  the  mattress.  I  hid  some  of  my 
money,  too,  but  afterwards  I  put  all  the  money  back  in 
my  wallet  and  in  my  pockets,  for  I  was  afraid  that  the 
outlaws  might  tear  out  the  berth  in  case  they  did  not 
find  enough  money  to  satisfy  them." 

"  How  could  you  lie  there  and  wait  ?  What  did 
you  do  with  yourself  ?  "  bursts  in  England. 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  I  almost  went  to  sleep. 
There  was  nothing  else  to  do  after  I  had  hidden  my 
watch." 

"  You  almost  went  to  sleep ! "  cries  England  in  the 
upper  register  of  her  voice.  "  Mr.  Percyfield,  I  don't 
believe  you." 

"  I  did,  though.  I  almost  went  to  sleep.  You  see 
it  took  the  outlaws  some  time  to  go  through  the  other 

125 


JOHN  PEKCYFIELD 


cars,  and  I  had  been  so  much  in  the  open  air  the  past 
few  days  that  by  that  time  I  was  growing  very  sleepy. 
But  when  the  outlaws  did  finally  reach  our  car,  I  was 
anything  but  sleepy.  My  heart  thumped  the  way  it 
did  when  I  climbed  Pike's  Peak.  Furthermore,  they 
made  a  great  racket.  I  never  heard  such  swearing, 
not  even  in  St.  Louis.  You  could  smell  sulphur.  They 
made  the  porter  light  every  single  lamp  until  the  car 
was  one  blaze  of  light.  Then  they  went  down  the 
aisle,  the  three  of  them,  one  on  guard,  one  dealing 
with  the  passengers,  and  one  carrying  a  sack  for  the 
receipt  of  such  vanities  as  pocket-books,  loose  change, 
watches,  and  jewelry.  I  was  still  in  bed,  and  my  cur 
tains  were  down,  so  I  could  only  judge  of  what  was 
happening  by  the  noise.  I  heard  the  constant  com 
mand,  '  Dig  up,'  an  expression  I  had  never  heard  be 
fore,  but  which  I  could  readily  guess  meant  to  '  shell 
out,'  and  this,  you  know,  means  to  '  hand  over.'  " 

"  You  have  such  droll  expressions  in  America,"  in 
terrupts  Ireland. 

"  However,  by  some  accident,  the  outlaws  passed 
my  section  without  investigating  it,  and  I  was  begin 
ning  to  count  myself  a  very  lucky  man,  for  I  heard 
one  of  them  say,  4  Well,  fellows,  let 's  be  off.'  As  he 
turned,  his  rifle  caught  in  my  curtain,  and  there  was 
I.  He  dashed  the  curtains  aside  and  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  berth  with  the  pleasant  remark, 4  Here  's  a 
man  we  have  n't  done  yet.'  " 

"  I  do  not  see  how  you  stood  it,"  says  the  gentle  Ire* 
land ;  "  I  should  have  quite  died  of  fright." 

126 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM 


"  I  had  no  choice  in  the  matter,"  I  reply ;  "  the 
inevitable  makes  us  all  heroes.  And  the  situation, 
though  not  exactly  what  you  would  voluntarily  elect, 
was  far  from  being  uninteresting.  It  was  quite  like  a 
scene  out  of  a  dime  novel.  There  was  I,  a  mild- 
mannered  tourist,  flat  in  bed,  and  there  was  the  heavy 
villain  sitting  on  the  foot  of  the  bed  without  so  much 
as  « by  your  leave.'  And  his  appearance  added  to  the 
picturesqueness  of  the  affair.  He  had  on  a  rough 
mask  made  of  burlap,  the  coarse  stuff  they  use  for 
potato  sacks.  It  came  down  to  his  shoulders,  and 
covered  his  head  and  face  entirely.  There  were  only 
two  little  holes  for  his  eyes.  He  was  a  regular  walk 
ing  arsenal.  Besides  the  rifle,  he  had  two  revolvers 
and  a  bowie  knife.  He  could  hardly  have  carried 
any  more  weapons.  But  do  you  know,  on  the  whole, 
I  think  he  was  more  nervous  than  I,  for  I  had  the 
more  powerful  weapon.  I  had  society  at  my  back. 
It  might  be  worsted  for  the  moment,  but  in  the  end  it 
is  always  victorious,  while  he  with  his  petty  firearms 
was  standing  out  against  society.  He  was  very  busi 
ness-like.  He  went  through  all  my  pockets,  and  made 
me  hand  over  the  wallet  from  under  my  pillow.  When 
he  came  to  my  vest  pocket  he  took  the  compass  along 
with  the  small  coins.  I  did  not  think  of  it  at  the 
time  or  I  should  have  asked  him  to  leave  that.  As  it 
was,  my  heart  was  quite  in  my  mouth,  for  I  remem 
bered  at  the  last  moment  that  my  watch-key  was  in 
that  pocket,  and  I  expected  to  hear  him  thunder  out, 
*  Where  is  your  watch  ? '  I  should  have  been  quite 

127 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


willing  to  lie  to  him  about  it,  but  not  being  in  practice, 
the  trouble  was  to  do  it  successfully.  Fortunately  I 
was  not  put  to  the  test,  for  his  great  horny  finger 
scooped  out  everything  else,  and  left  the  key  safely 
tucked  away  in  one  corner  of  the  pocket.  If  he  had 
been  listening,  he  could  have  heard  my  sigh  of  relief. 
As  I  saw  my  wallet  vanishing,  I  did  remember  that  it 
had  my  ticket  to  Chicago  in  it.  I  had  heard  great 
tales  of  the  politeness  of  these  fellows,  so  I  said  to  the 
one  in  front  of  me,  4  You  have  my  ticket  to  Chicago, 
and  I  should  like  to  have  that  back,  if  you  please.' " 

"  Really,  Mr.  Percyfield,"  breaks  in  England,  "  you 
did  n't  say  that  to  a  robber,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did,  and  what  is  more,  he  gave  it  back 
to  me.  He  opened  the  wallet,  —  it 's  this  one  I  am 
carrying  now,  —  took  out  the  bank  notes  and  threw 
them  into  the  sack  of  worldly  vanities,  closed  the 
wallet,  and  handed  it  back  to  me  most  politely,  and 
I  said,  'Thank  you,'  amused  even  then  at  this  ex 
change  of  courtesies  with  a  gentleman  of  the  road.  I 
have  been  sorry  ever  since  that  I  did  not  talk  with 
him,  and  find  out  his  point  of  view  about  the  whole 
affair.  It  was  an  unusual  opportunity,  and  I  should 
never  have  missed  it.  Yes,  he  had  a  point  of  view, 
1  am  sure  of  that.  I  heard  afterwards  that  one  of 
the  outlaws  refused  to  rob  a  train  hand,  remarking, 
'  That 's  all  right.  You  work  for  your  money.'  Evi 
dently  they  thought  that  the  rest  of  us  did  not.  It 
was  a  great  mistake,  not  talking  to  him.  Well,  I  was 
the  last  man  4  done '  on  the  whole  train.  Then  the 

128 


IN  THE  DKAWING-ROOM 


robbers  took  themselves  off,  but  not  without  giving  us 
a  parting  salute.  As  soon  as  they  got  on  the  embank 
ment  they  sent  a  volley  of  shots  at  our  car.  I  don't 
think  they  meant  to  hurt  any  of  us.  I  think  they 
only  meant  to  frighten  us  and  discourage  pursuit.  But 
the  noise  was  something  dreadful.  The  bullets  pattered 
around  on  the  roof  of  the  car,  smashing  the  ventila 
tors  and  sending  the  fragments  of  glass  down  into 
the  aisle.  It  did  seem  for  a  moment  as  if  the  day  of 
judgment  had  come.  But  the  train  was  soon  in  motion 
again,  and  the  hold-up  was  over.  Then  there  was  the 
noise  of  many  voices.  Everybody  was  talking  to 
everybody  else  and  wondering  how  it  all  happened,  and 
comparing  experiences.  The  nervous  woman  was  re 
lating  her  woes  in  high  soprano.  I  stuck  my  head 
out  of  the  curtains.  Across  the  aisle,  a  rough-looking 
Montana  man  had  his  head  sticking  out  in  much  the 
same  fashion  —  reminding  me  for  all  the  world  of 
the  way  we  children  used  to  play  Bluebeard's  wives, 
the  winter  we  lived  in  New  Orleans.  You  know  how 
frowsy  and  funny  people  look  after  they  have  been  in 
bed  a  half  an  hour  and  got  their  hair  all  mussed  up. 
Montana  looked  as  if  he  had  been  in  bed  a  week,  but 
he  proved  to  be  a  rough  diamond.  It  was  not  a  time 
to  wait  for  introductions.  As  soon  as  he  saw  my 
head  appear,  he  said  in  a  hearty  way, '  Well,  pardner, 
how  did  you  fare  ? '  I  laughed  and  answered,  4  Very 
badly ;  they  took  all  I  had.'  « Pshaw ;  I  wish  I  'd 
known,'  said  Montana,  '  I  would  have  told  you  how 
to  manage.  How  much  did  you  lose  ?  '  4  About  fif  fry 

129 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


dollars,'  said  I.  '  Pshaw ;  you  did  n't  ? '  4  Yes,  I  did,' 
said  I ;  and  then  I  went  on  to  tell  Montana  that  I  had 
been  more  anxious  to  save  my  watch  and  my  seven- 
league  boots  than  my  money.  He  had  himself  only 
four  dollars  and  eighty-four  cents,  but  he  took  my  loss 
more  to  heart  than  I  did.  He  disappeared  back  of  his 
curtains,  and  I  thought  he  was  disgusted  with  me  for 
being  such  a  tenderfoot  as  to  lose  everything.  In  a 
moment,  however,  a  great  rough  hand  came  stealing 
across  the  aisle.  It  was  Montana's.  Between  the 
thumb  and  forefinger  were  two  silver  dollars,  cart 
wheels  we  call  them  in  America.  '  Here,'  said  he, 
abruptly,  '  take  that.'  Remember,  please,  that  this 
was  nearly  half  of  his  own  slender  purse,  and  that  I 
had  never  seen  him  before  in  my  whole  life.  I  was  tre 
mendously  touched.  I  thanked  Montana  as  best  I  could, 
telling  him  that  this  goodness  of  his  quite  redeemed 
the  outrage  of  the  hold-up,  and  that  I  would  gladly 
accept  the  money  if  he  would  let  me  return  it  later. 

" '  No,'  said  he,  with  an  oath,  which  I  think  the  re 
cording  angel  took  no  account  of,  '  a  man  in  your  fix, 
I  want  to  give  it  to  him.' 

"  I  like  to  tell  this  part  of  the  story,  for  it  shows  the 
heroic  side  of  Western  life." 

"  What  did  you  do  ?  "  asks  the  practical  Scotland, 
always  alert  when  any  money  transactions  are  men 
tioned.  "  Two  dollars.  That  would  be  eight  shillings, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"  I  took  the  money,  put  it  under  my  pillow,  and 
went  to  sleep." 

130 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM 


"  How  could  you  ?  "  says  Ireland. 

"It  would  have  hurt  Montana's  feelings,  if  I  had  not 
taken  the  money,"  I  reply,  somewhat  surprised  at  her 
way  of  looking  at  it,  for  the  Percyfields  have  ever  been 
very  punctilious  in  money  matters. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  that,"  Ireland  hastens  to  explain  ; 
"  I  mean  how  could  you  go  to  sleep?  " 

'•'  There  was  nothing  else  to  do.  Lightning  seldom 
strikes  the  same  tree  twice.  There  was  little  danger 
of  a  second  hold-up." 

"  I  believe,  Mr.  Percyfield,  that  you  have  no  nerves 
whatever,"  is  England's  comment. 

"  Indeed  I  have,  as  you  would  soon  see,  if  I  drank 
your  English  tea  of  an  afternoon  as  strong  as  you 
would  like  to  give  it  to  me.  I  should  soon  be  a  very 
tottery,  trembly  old  gentleman." 

England  laughs.  She  has  a  little  contempt,  you 
know,  for  my  weak  tea.  Then  she  adds,  "  Did  you 
hear  how  the  brigands  stopped  the  train  ?  " 

I  had  never  thought  of  the  outlaws  as  "  brigands," 
and  it  rather  shocked  me  to  think  that  we  had  such 
an  article  in  America.  I  was  slow  in  answering. 
"  Oh  yes,  the  three  men  got  on  the  front  platform  of 
the  baggage  car  at  a  little  station  called  Reedy  Point, 
and  after  the  train  had  pulled  out  some  distance,  they 
adjusted  their  masks,  stood  up,  and  aimed  their  three 
rifles  at  the  head  of  the  engineer.  Then  they  called 
his  attention  to  the  fact  and  told  him  to  stop  when  he 
saw  a  lantern.  He  very  naturally  did  so,  for  it  was 
Hobson's  choice." 

131 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


"  Was  there  no  resistance  ?  "  asks  the  Chatelaine. 
It  is  the  night  of  the  Escalade,  and  the  Genevois  fight 
ing  blood  is  up. 

"  Hardly  any.  The  porter  in  the  sleeper  back  of 
ours  did  fire  at  the  robbers,  but  got  such  a  volley  back 
that  the  next  day  his  car  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
through  a  battle.  I  never  understood  before  how  a 
few  men  could  hold  up  a  whole  trainf ul  of  people,  but 
you  see  you  are  at  a  great  disadvantage.  You  have 
to  deal  with  absolutely  desperate  men,  genuine  des 
peradoes,  and  you  never  know  how  many  confederates 
they  have  outside.  Furthermore,  you  are  in  a  brightly 
lighted  car  while  they  are  under  cover  of  the  shadows. 
Montana  told  me  afterward  that  he  had  a  loaded  pistol 
under  his  pillow  and  that  at  one  moment  all  three 
men  had  their  backs  to  him.  « But  I  did  n't  fire,' 
he  added,  4  for  I  did  n't  know  what  women  and  chil 
dren  I  might  have  hit  back  of  them  curtains,  and  then 
if  I  had  killed  all  three  of  'em,  and  they  had  had 
enough  pardners  outside,  them  fellows  would  have 
come  into  this  here  car  and  done  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  of  us,  just  out  of  pure  revenge.'  I  respected 
his  temperance.  The  robbers  understood  the  situation, 
too.  They  were  playing  a  losing  game  in  life  and 
were  willing  to  risk  all  in  any  mad  adventure.  But 
with  the  rest  of  us  it  was  different.  We  were  on  the 
winning  side.  Life  was  too  precious  a  gift  to  be 
thrown  away  for  a  few  dollars.  The  robbers  were 
careful  not  to  offer  us  any  personal  insult  or  injury. 
Had  they  done  that,  it  would  have  roused  the  tiger  in 

132 


IN  THE  DRAWING-KOOM 


the  gentlest  of  us,  and  the  result  would  have  been  too 
terrible  to  tell  about.  But  there  was  another  side  to 
it,  at  once  humorous  and  pathetic.  One  little  woman 
in  another  sleeper  was  so  frightened  that  she  hid 
under  her  berth  and  so  lost  nothing.  It  happened  to 
be  a  new  sleeper,  and  the  berth  was  fortunately  rather 
high,  so  that  a  small  person  could  just  manage  to 
squeeze  under  it.  Then  there  was  an  old  lady  in  my 
own  sleeper  who  was  going  only  a  short  distance  and 
had  but  twelve  dollars  with  her.  When  the  outlaw 
pointed  his  revolver  at  her  head  and  told  her  roughly 
to  '  Dig  up,'  she  handed  the  money  to  him,  for,  as  she 
told  me  afterwards,  she  thought  that  if  she  had  to  die, 
she  would  rather  not  die  with  a  lie  in  her  throat." 

"Did  none  of  the  other  passengers  manage  to 
save  their  money  ?  "  asks  the  canny  Scotland. 

"  Yes,  several  of  them  had  their  wits  about  them. 
One  man  got  up  and  wandered  about  the  car,  and 
when  ordered  to  hand  over  his  money,  said  with  great 
show  of  indignation,  '  How  often  can  you  do  a  fellow, 
anyway  ?  You  've  got  all  I  had/  In  reality  he  had 
not  lost  a  penny." 

"How  splendid! "  says  Scotland,  enthusiastically,  and 
Ireland  murmurs  gently,  "  It  was  too  shocking  that  he 
had  to  tell  such  a  lie  about  it." 

England  looks  at  me  quizzically.  "Would  you 
have  lied  for  money,  Mr.  Percy  field  ?  "  she  asks. 

"  Well,  it  was  curious,"  I  answer,  "  but  just  a 
couple  of  days  before  the  hold-up,  I  had  been  going 
over  the  whole  question  in  my  own  mind.  I  hate  a 

133 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


lie,  as  much  as  my  grandfather  Percyfield  did  before 
me,  with  a  blind,  unreasoning  hatred.  And  I  was 
asking  myself  what  the  theoretical  grounds  for  truth- 
telling  were,  and  especially  whether  a  man  is  ever 
justified  in  lying.  The  question  was  brought  home  to 
me,  you  see,  because  I  met  so  many  lies  in  the  Yellow 
stone  Park,  regular  whoppers,  as  we  used  to  say  when 
we  were  children." 

"  How  was  that  ?  "  asks  the  Chatelaine,  who  takes, 
you  know,  a  very  keen  interest  in  American  affairs. 

"  It  was  chiefly  about  the  difficulties  and  the  dis 
tances.  They  did  not  want  me  to  walk." 

"  Why  not?  "  says  Scotland.  "It  is  the  cheapest 
way  of  traveling,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  That  was  precisely  it.  They  preferred  that  I 
should  take  the  stage,  or  else  hire  a  couple  of  saddle 
horses  and  a  guide." 

"  I  hope  you  did  n't  do  it,"  says  Scotland,  indig 
nantly. 

"  No,  indeed,"  I  answer,  "  I  walked  the  whole  dis 
tance.  I  much  preferred  it,  and  I  suspected  all  along 
that  they  were  telling  me  fairy  stories.  There  is  not 
the  slightest  reason  why  one  should  n't  walk." 

"But  what  did  you  conclude  about  the  lying?" 
demands  England,  with  a  touch  of  impatience.  I 
think  she  rather  likes  to  get  at  a  radical's  point  of 
view  in  such  matters. 

"  I  reasoned  it  out  in  this  way.  Savages  and  less 
evolved  people  generally,  even  fairly  well-born  children 
at  a  certain  age,  seem  to  lie  naturally.  It  is  a  defense 

134 


IN  THE   DRAWING-BOOM 


of  the  weak.  But  a  wider  experience  of  life  shows  the 
immense  superiority  of  truth-telling.  The  prejudice 
that  all  right-minded  people  have  for  strict  truthfulness 
rests  on  this  large  experience.  It  dees  not,  however, 
belong  to  the  primal  order  of  things,  like  gravitation 
and  life  and  death.  Much  as  we  revere  truth-telling, 
we  must  acknowledge  that  it  is  a  purely  social  virtue, 
and  grows  out  of  social  and  individual  experience. 
The  race  discovers  that  progress  depends  upon  re 
porting  things  exactly  as  they  are,  and  that  daily  life 
is  more  successful  when  people  tell  one  another  the 
exact  truth.  This,  you  know,  is  one  of  my  strong  ob 
jections  to  trade,  that  traders  do  not  tell  each  other 
the  exact  truth.  Indeed,  they  sometimes  tell  each 
other  pretty  big  falsehoods.  Then  in  the  second  place, 
a  man  owes  it  to  himself  to  clarify  his  own  vision,  and 
to  look  at  the  world  as  unblinkingly  as  possible.  He 
can  do  this  only  by  the  most  rigorous,  most  unre 
lenting  truthfulness.  It  is  this  necessity  that  makes 
scientific  men  as  a  class  —  and  especially  geologists," 
I  add  laughingly  —  "  such  superior  moral  persons. 
The  worst  effect  of  lying  is  upon  one's  self.  It  takes 
away  the  very  foundations  of  the  intellectual  life,  for 
it  robs  one  of  discrimination  and  clear-sightedness. 
When  one  sees  less  clearly,  one  knows  less  clearly  ; 
for  knowledge,  after  all,  is  merely  a  perception  of  re 
lations." 

"  In  that  case,"  says  England  triumphantly,  "  I 
don't  see  that  you  have  anything  to  discuss  in  the  way 
of  exceptions." 

135 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


"  Yes,  I  have,"  I  answer.  "  That 's  what  makes  the 
question  so  interesting.  The  nearer  we  approach  the 
gods,  the  more  are  we  bound  to  make  lower  laws  give 
way  before  higher  laws,  and  the  less  may  we  stick  to 
the  letter  of  the  law  if  the  letter  deny  the  spirit.  The 
supreme  and  sole  virtue  of  truth-telling  is  that  it  fur 
thers  social  life  and  individual  development.  Should 
it  cease  to  do  that  in  any  particular  case,  and  range 
itself  against  the  social  good,  it  would  become  a  grave 
fault  in  place  of  a  high  virtue.  For  example,  no  one 
would  hesitate  to  deceive  a  pack  of  wolves  and  so 
save  his  life.  Indeed,  we  should  have  no  respect  for 
a  man  who,  rather  than  act  a  lie,  allowed  himself  to 
be  eaten  up.  The  higher  duty  is  to  defend  the  social 
order.  A  moral  man  must  tell  the  absolute  truth  to 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  within  the  social  order, 
but  in  those  exceptional  cases  where  he  has  to  deal 
with  persons  outside  the  social  order,  he  is  under  no 
such  necessity.  Indeed,  it  may  be  more  moral  to 
lie." 

"  Oh,  really! "  says  Ireland,  not  a  little  shocked  at 
this  view ;  and  England  asks,  "  But  then,  Mr.  Percy- 
field,  are  there  any  people  outside  the  social  order? 
I  thought  you  hot  young  democrats  counted  all  men 
as  brothers." 

I  like  her  objection.  In  time  I  may  even  make  a 
democrat  out  of  her.  I  answer :  "  That  was  just  the 
question  I  put  to  myself.  Is  the  social  order  all-in 
clusive,  or  are  there  outsiders  ?  " 

"  Infidels,  Jews,  and  heretics,"  suggests  England^. 
136 


IN  THE   DKAWING-KOOM 


and  then  I  see  that  there  is  not  a  trace  of  democracy 
in  her. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  I  answer  warmly.  "  That  would 
be  most  undemocratic.  Mere  opinion  never  takes  a 
man  out  of  the  social  order.  He  may  be  right,  and 
you  may  be  wrong.  The  only  thing  that  can  carry 
him  beyond  the  pale  is  anti-social  action  of  a  destruc 
tive  sort." 

"  But  who  shall  judge  what  constitutes  such  action  ?  '* 
asks  Mademoiselle  de  Candolle. 

"  Society  must  judge,  and  must  run  the  risk  of 
being  wrong.  Hence  the  immense  importance  of  ele 
vated  social  opinion.  For  myself,  I  recognize  only 
three  classes  of  outsiders,  —  first,  an  invading  army ; 
secondly,  crazy  and  sick  people,  pretty  much  the  same 
thing,  you  know ;  and  thirdly,  outlaws.  It  would 
seem  to  me  more  moral  to  lie  to  invaders  and  crazy 
people  and  criminals,  if  by  lying  one  could  deceive 
them,  and  so  defeat  their  unsocial  purposes." 

"  Don't  you  think  that 's  a  dangerous  creed,  Mr. 
Percyfield?"  asks  England. 

"  Yes,  Madame,"  I  answer  frankly,  "  I  think  it  is 
extremely  dangerous.  But  so  is  dynamite,  so  is  all 
power.  One  must  not  be  a  coward  morally  any  more 
than  physically.  And  I  find  practically  that  a  willing 
ness  to  lie  under  exceptional  circumstances  makes  one 
more  punctilious  in  the  normal  affairs  of  life.  The 
danger,  too,  is  diminished  by  the  fact  that  one  does 
not  ordinarily  meet  invaders  or  outlaws,  or  even  peo 
ple  crazy  enough  to  be  called  so." 

137 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


u  You  did  not  put  your  theory  into  practice,"  laughs 
the  Chatelaine. 

"  That  is  true.  Force  of  habit,  you  know.  I  had 
never  talked  over  the  social  wall  before,  and  I  told 
the  strict  truth,  just  as  I  should  have  done  had  we 
both  been  on  the  same  side  of  the  wall.  It  was  n't 
the  highest  morality,  though.  It  would  have  been 
much  better  if  I  had  saved  at  least  forty  dollars  and 
given  it  to  you  for  the  Christmas-tree  up  at  the  vil- 
lage." 

"  I  should  never  have  allowed  you  to  give  so  much," 
retorts  the  Chatelaine,  who  guards  my  pocket-book 
much  more  carefully  than  I  do.  "  The  twenty  francs 
were  quite  enough.  But  tell  us  what  you  did  the 
next  day." 

"As  nearly  as  I  can  remember  I  woke  up."  At 
this  we  all  laugh,  and  it  is  quite  as  well,  for  we  had 
been  getting  into  rather  deep  waters  for  a  holiday. 
"  I  found  myself  out  in  the  wilds  of  Montana  with 
just  two  silver  dollars  in  my  pocket,  and  an  appetite 
as  keen  as  a  hunter's.  It  was  a  distinct  sensation,  not 
to  have  any  money  in  your  pocket,  and  I  am  rather 
glad  to  have  had  it.  Later  in  the  day  I  met  a  young 
fellow  from  Boston,  Mr.  Kichard  Forrester,  whom  I 
had  seen  at  several  of  the  hotels  in  the  Park.  He 
was  in  another  sleeper,  and  had  managed  to  save 
nearly  a  hundred  dollars  of  his  own  money,  so  he 
kindly  cashed  a  small  cheque  for  me,  and  I  gave  the 
two  silver  dollars  back  to  Montana.  As  Forrester 
a  stranger,  I  was  foolish  and  would  only  let  him 
138 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM 


give  me  five  dollars.  I  did  not  realize  how  very  short 
a  distance  five  dollars  will  go,  especially  if  you  pay 
seventy-five  cents  or  a  dollar  for  every  meal.  Conse 
quently,  in  going  from  Minneapolis  to  Chicago,  I  had 
not  enough  money  to  pay  for  a  berth  in  the  sleeper, 
and  had  to  sit  up  all  night.  Whom  should  I  see  in 
the  front  part  of  the  car  but  the  nervous  woman  !  Of 
course,  she  had  to  tell  her  adventures  to  the  people 
around  her,  and  presently  a  hearty  Westerner  stood 
up  and  addressed  us  all,  — 

"  '  I  say,  fellows,  this  poor  girl '  —  she  was  at  least 
fifty  —  'was  in  the  hold-up  we  read  about  yester 
day,  and  lost  everything  she  had.  I  propose  to  pass 
around  the  hat  for  her.' 

44  When  he  came  to  me,  the  humor  of  the  situation 
seemed  too  good  to  keep  to  myself,  so  I  explained  to 
him  why  I  could  give  nothing.  But  I  begged  him  not 
to  say  anything  about  it,  for  I  had  no  desire  to  have 
them  associate  me  in  their  thoughts  with  the  nervous 
woman,  or  to  have  this  kind-hearted  Westerner  pass 
around  the  hat  for  me.  I  think  my  grandfather  Per- 
cyfield  would  have  turned  in  his  grave." 

"And  did  you  never  get  your  money  back?"  asks 
Scotland. 

44  Not  a  penny  of  it.  I  put  in  a  claim  against  the 
railroad  company,  for  they  had  charged  me  a  good 
round  sum  for  fares,  and  I  considered  that  they  were 
bound  to  protect  me,  but  they  refused  to  consider  the 
claim.  Indeed,  they  treated  me  worse  than  the  rob 
bers  did,  for  they  even  declined  to  supply  me  with 

139 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


meals  and  a  berth  until  I  could  reach  Chicago  and 
telegraph  home  for  money.  I  should  have  fared  ill 
had  it  not  been  for  Montana  and  Mr.  Forrester." 

"  I  hope  they  caught  the  robbers,  did  they  not  ? " 
says  England. 

"  Yes,  they  caught  them  not  long  afterwards  in  a 
lonely  cabin  out  in  the  mountains.  There  were  five 
of  them  at  that  time,  and  they  were  evidently  prepar 
ing  to  hold  up  a  train  on  the  Great  Northern.  It  was 
a  regular  siege.  The  sheriff  and  his  party  numbered 
thirteen  men.  One  man  was  sent  forward  with  a 
white  flag  of  truce.  The  robbers  responded  by  shoot 
ing  him  dead.  When  I  think  of  it,  I  am  almost  sorry 
that  Montana  did  not  kill  the  three  of  them  right 
there  in  the  train,  and  let  come  what  would.  You  see, 
the  robbers  were  quite  lost  to  all  sense  of  honor  and 
decency.  It  fairly  makes  me  shiver  to  think  that  I 
talked  with  one  of  them,  and  that  he  handled  this 
wallet  of  mine.  When  the  surrender  finally  came, 
four  of  the  robbers  were  quite  dead,  and  the  other 
desperately  wounded." 

"  What  a  dreadful  tale !  "  says  Ireland,  drawing 
still  nearer  to  the  fire.  "  It  sounds  like  the  middle 
ages,  quite." 

So  I  hasten  to  add,  "  I  must  conclude  the  tale  with 
something  pleasant,  another  coincidence  —  a  true  one, 
Madame.  Afterwards  when  I  went  back  to  Harvard, 
President  Eliot  gave  his  customary  reception  to  the 
new  men  and  graduate  students,  and  of  course  I  went. 
1  had  a  number  of  pleasant  encounters.  I  noticed  a 

140 


IN  THE   DRAWING-ROOM 


familiar  face  that  I  could  not  at  all  place.  I  noticed, 
too,  that  its  owner  regarded  me  intently  from  time  to 
time.  Presently  he  came  up  to  me,  and  holding  out 
his  hand,  said  in  a  very  friendly  way,  *  Is  this  not  Mr. 
Percyfield,  of  Philadelphia?'  I  took  his  hand  and 
smiled  back,  for  I  have  ever  had  a  fondness  for  hand 
some,  manly  young  fellows,  but  I  had  to  confess  that 
I  could  not  recall  his  name.  '  I  was  once  on  a  train 
with  you  in  Montana,'  he  began,  but  at  once  I  inter 
rupted  him,  '  And  you  are  Mr.  Richard  Forrester,  and 
you  kindly  cashed  a  cheque  for  me  ! '  It  seems  that 
Mr.  Forrester  was  an  assistant  at  the  university,  and 
we  often  got  together  that  winter  and  talked  over  our 
adventures." 

"  Well,"  declares  England,  "  I  am  prepared  to  hear 
that  you  met  the  Montana  man,  your  rough  diamond, 
crossing  the  ocean,  and  saw  the  nervous  woman  in 
Paris,  and  so  on  to  the  end." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  I  laughingly  answer.  "  That  is 
really  the  very  end  of  the  story.  And  I  don't  tell  it 
any  more  at  home,  lest  I  shall  get  to  be  known  as 
4  That  man  who  was  held  up.'  " 

"  And  you  're  too  much  of  a  democrat  to  care  for 
titles,  are  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  I  am  very  proud  to  be  plain  Mr.  Percy- 
field,  for  it  is  an  honest  name  that  has  come  down 
unspotted  from  that  first  Mr.  Percyfield  of  whom  we 
have  any  knowledge,  the  one  who  was  esquire  to  Wil 
liam  the  Conqueror,  as  you  will  see  if  you  look  over 
the  list  in  Poor's  Annals  of  London.  The  book  was 

111 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


published  in  1600.  Perhaps  you  haven't  a  copy  of 
it."  The  Annals  happens  to  be  one  of  the  treasures 
in  the  library  at  Uplands,  and  it  is  a  safe  hazard  that 
England  never  saw  it.  This  bit  of  family  news  makes 
as  deep  an  impression  on  England  as  if  she  had  been 
a  Philadelphian.  As  the  gentle  Ireland  seems  still  a 
bit  shaken  by  her  glimpse  into  a  rougher  world,  I  go 
on  in  the  lighter  vein.  "  But  I  'm  always  a  trifle  shy 
of  any  title  beginning  4  That  man.'  Once  when  I  was 
walking  in  Carolina,  I  went  for  the  day  out  to  Caesar's 
Head.  It 's  a  mountain  just  over  the  line,  in  South 
Carolina,  and  there's  a  rambling  old  summer  hotel 
there.  I  had  on  my  golf  trousers  —  it  was  before 
they  were  at  all  common  in  the  South.  I  did  n't  know 
the  people  at  the  hotel,  and  quite  failed  to  get  up  any 
thing  of  a  conversation  with  the  dull  old  gentleman 
who  sat  at  the  same  table  with  me  at  dinner,  and  so  I 
was  one  of  the  first  to  leave.  I  had  got  as  far  as  the 
centre  of  the  big  dining-room,  when  a  sweet  little  girl 
of  four  said  in  the  high  soprano  of  her  years,  '  Oh, 
mamma,  there  goes  that  man  with  the  short  pants  on.'  — 
Pardon  the  word,  but  the  child  said  'pants.'  You  can 
imagine  the  effect.  The  room  was  full  and  every  one 
naturally  looked  at  my  embarrassed  self.  Quite  as 
naturally  every  one  smiled,  some  of  them  audibly. 
Ever  since  then  I  have  been  sensitive  to  any  remarks 
beginning  with  those  words." 

By  this  time  it  is  quite  the  hour  for  retiring,  even 
if  it  is  the  fete  of  the  Escalade.  I  would  only  remark 
in  passing  that  it  is  always  well  to  tell  your  frontier 

142 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM 


adventures  after  dark.  For  one  thing  the  evening 
dress  heightens  the  effect. 

When  the  ladies  withdraw  and  leave  me  to  my 
scales  and  five-finger  exercises,  they  thank  me  very 
prettily  for  my  tales,  and  England  puts  out  her  hand 
and  adds  graciously,  "  Indeed,  Mr.  Percyfield,  for  all 
that  you  have  said  —  I  shall  think  it  all  over." 

The  gentle  Ireland  declares,  however,  that  she  will 
hardly  be  able  to  sleep,  and  begs  the  Chatelaine  to  see 
that  the  front  door  is  locked. 

"  Which  one,  Countess?  "  asks  the  Chatelaine,  laugh 
ing. 

You  remember  that  we  have  six  of  them. 


143 


CHAPTER  VI 

AN   ETUDE    OF   BEKTINl'S 

IN  one  corner  of  the  big  drawing-room  of  the  Cha 
teau,  there  stands  an  old  square  piano.  The  ivory 
keys  are  yellow  with  time,  and  the  fashion  of  the  wood 
work  is  no  longer  to  be  found  in  the  market.  But 
the  tone  is  still  sweet  and  true.  I  never  went  near 
the  ancient  instrument  when  there  was  any  one  in  the 
room,  but  when  I  found  myself  there  quite  alone,  I 
used  sometimes  to  lift  the  lid  furtively,  and  then, 
seeing  that  the  doors  were  shut  very  tight,  I  would 
run  over  the  scales,  or  produce  an  uneven  patter  of 
arpeggios.  This  was  the  extent  of  my  musical  ac 
complishment.  I  have  always  taken  it  hard  that  I 
could  make  no  music  with  either  voice  or  hand,  for  in 
point  of  devotion  to  sweet  sounds  1  exceed  the  most 
ardent.  But  my  grandfather  Percyfield,  as  I  have 
said,  would  never  allow  me  to  be  taught  music.  It  is 
the  only  part  of  his  educational  plan  that  I  have  ever 
seriously  questioned.  If  it  be  true  that  this  omission 
was  the  price  of  good  health,  then  I  think  that  my 
grandfather  Percyfield  was  quite  right.  It  is  a  heav 
enly  thing  to  have  a  sound,  wholesome  body,  in  which 
you  can  find  no  ache  or  pain,  no  organ  out  of  order, 
nothing  but  the  sensation  of  vigorous,  delightful  life, 

144 


AN  ETUDE   OF  BERTINI'S 


It 's  a  bit  of  good  fortune  that  we  all  ought  to  have, 
and  I  am  always  grateful  to  my  grandfather  Percy- 
field  that  he  secured  it  for  me  at  any  cost.  But  if 
he  could  only  have  given  me  this  and  music,  too !  It 
is  one  of  the  minor  tragedies  of  life  not  to  have  the 
music. 

It  is  a  fortunate  thing  when  one's  taste  runs  with 
one's  talent.  Here  am  I,  who  can  do  a  hundred  and 
one  things  that  I  hardly  care  to  do,  and  I  can  scarcely 
sing  or  play  a  note.  But  I  must  be  patient.  I  have 
arranged  with  Fate  that  in  my  next  incarnation,  I  am 
to  sing  and  to  play  the  violin.  But  the  ivory  keys  of 
that  old  piano  have  a  fascination  about  them.  They 
suggested  the  thought  that  I  might  perhaps  get  in 
some  of  my  drill  work  here  and  now. 

I  set  about  finding  a  teacher,  rather  shyly  and 
shamefacedly,  I  confess,  for  it  did  seem  a  trifle  absurd 
for  a  man  nearly  thirty  to  be  taking  up  the  elements 
of  music.  I  spoke  to  the  Chatelaine  about  it,  and 
with  characteristic  energy  she  began  the  search.  She 
thought  that  possibly  our  neighbor  at  Mon  Bijou  would 
teach  me  —  Mademoiselle  Werner. 

The  very  next  afternoon,  when  the  Chatelaine  and 
I  were  out  walking,  we  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet 
Mademoiselle  Werner.  She  is  a  beautiful  woman,  I 
should  say  about  forty-five,  but  I  was  never  good  at 
guessing  age,  for  it  interests  me  to  know,  not  how  long 
people  have  been  at  it,  but  rather  what  they  have  suc 
ceeded  in  accomplishing.  Mademoiselle  Werner's  hair 
is  touched  with  gray,  but  her  face  is  as  fair  and  fresh 

145 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


as  a  child's.  Her  dress  that  afternoon  was  curiously 
youthful,  being  fairly  gay  with  color,  and  yet  it  did 
not  strike  one  as  being  unsuitable.  It  was  only  that 
she  was  in  every  way  an  unusual  looking  person.  The 
Chatelaine  was  walking  ahead  of  me  at  the  time,  as 
it  happened  to  be  a  little  muddy.  There  were  some 
sedate,  stupid-looking  cows  coming  towards  us.  Made 
moiselle  Werner  rushed  over  to  the  Chatelaine  in  a 
great  state  of  alarm,  fearful  lest  her  red  cloak  should 
bring  trouble.  She  clung  to  the  Chatelaine  as  any 
small  child  might  have  done.  In  spite  of  her  genuine 
terror,  it  was  funny  to  see  this  great  big  woman  in 
her  flowing  cloak  and  draperies  clinging  to  so  small  a 
protector  as  Mademoiselle  de  Candolle.  When  I  came 
up,  Mademoiselle  Werner  appealed  to  me  without 
thought  of  an  introduction,  only  it  was  in  excellent 
English,  with  what  seemed  to  me  a  very  pretty  ac 
cent  :  — 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  afraid  of  those  cows  !  Do  you  think 
they  will  hurt  me  ?  I  must  not  any  more  wear  this 
red  cloak  when  I  go  to  walk." 

Swiss  cows  are  not  excitable,  and  they  took  no  more 
notice  of  us  than  if  we  had  been  so  many  sparrows. 
But  even  after  the  cows  had  passed,  and  quite  disap 
peared  around  a  curve  in  the  road,  it  took  some  time 
to  calm  this  very  impetuous  person.  "  It  must  be 
that  I  am  very  nervous  to-day,"  she  said,  by  way  of 
apology. 

When  the  Chatelaine  mentioned  the  music,  the 
cows  were  instantly  forgotten,  and  Mademoiselle  Wer- 

146 


AN  ETUDE  OF  BERTINTS 


ner  threw  herself  into  the  subject  with  the  same  vehe 
mence  that  she  had  shown  before.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  play ! 
play  very  much,  —  Chopin,  Beethoven,  Wagner,  Grieg ; 
but  how  do  you  know  that  I  could  teach  Mr.  Percyfield 
to  play  ?  I  have  never  given  lessons,  moi,  what  made 
you  think  that  I  could  do  it  ?  Did  it  seem  to  you 
that  I  am  a  very  methodical  person  ?  "  She  laughed 
as  heartily  as  a  boy  might  if  you  proposed  that  he 
should  do  something  quite  ridiculous.  Then  she 
turned  to  me,  and  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm.  "  I  am  a 
creature  of  impulse,  Monsieur,  and  it  is  droll  to  me  to 
think  of  teaching  any  one  else  to  play." 

I  was  too  much  occupied  in  watching  Mademoiselle 
Werner  to  say  much  myself.  I  had  never  seen  any 
one  who  seemed  so  thoroughly  a  child,  or  to  live  so 
absolutely  in  the  present  moment.  Yet  she  was  per 
fectly  unaffected,  and  did  not  offend  one's  sense  of 
suitableness.  I  was  struck,  too,  with  the  composers  she 
had  mentioned,  for  they  seemed  so  entirely  appropriate 
to  her  curious,  impulsive  nature.  I  could  not  picture 
her  as  playing  Mozart  or  Haydn.  She  regarded  me 
attentively.  Her  large  gray-blue  eyes  had  almost  clair 
voyant  power.  Then  she  said,  "  Well,  if  you  want  it, 
Mr.  Percyfield,  I  will  give  you  a  lesson.  After  that 
we  will  see.  Come  to-morrow  afternoon,  but  not  until 
five.  I  must  paint  while  the  light  is  good.  One  can 
play  when  the  lamp  is  lighted." 

I  had  begun  to  share  Mademoiselle  Werner's  doubts 
about  her  ability  to  teach  me  music,  but  I  looked  for 
ward  with  interest  to  the  lesson.  At  five  o'clock  the 

117 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


next  afternoon  I  stood  before  her  door.  It  was  a  little 
country  house,  quite  perfect  of  its  kind,  and  deserved 
its  name  of  "  Mon  Bijou."  It  was  back  a  mile  or  so 
from  the  lake  on  the  ridge  beyond  St.  Maurice.  The 
house  was  surrounded  by  a  grove  of  beautiful,  large 
oak  trees,  and  on  the  edge  of  the  wood  was  a  little 
walled  terrasse  that  gave  a  splendid  view  of  the  Voi- 
rons  and  Mont  Blanc.  When  I  arrived,  Mademoiselle 
Werner  had  a  visitor,  and  so  bade  me  sit  down  on  the 
terrasse  and  enjoy  the  view.  Presently  an  old  woman 
joined  me.  She  looked  curiously  like  Mademoiselle 
Werner,  except  that  she  was  coarser  and  quite  lacked 
Mademoiselle's  charming  spirituality.  She  spoke  with 
the  same  directness,  but  in  her  it  seemed  like  unpar 
donable  bluntness.  In  fact  she  gave  me  rather  an 
uncanny  feeling. 

It  was  fully  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  Mademoi 
selle  Werner  dismissed  her  visitor  and  joined  us  on 
the  terrasse.  She  talked  with  great  animation  about 
the  fine  weather  and  the  beauty  of  the  view,  address 
ing  her  conversation  quite  as  much  to  the  bearded  old 
woman  as  to  me,  a  touch  of  courtesy  that  greatly 
pleased  me.  I  found  out  that  the  old  woman  was  a 
cousin,  Madame  Grison,  and  that  the  two  lived  to 
gether  at  Mon  Bijou.  Finally,  we  all  went  into  the 
drawing-room  and  the  lesson  began. 

There  was  no  music  in  sight.  We  sat  down  to  the 
piano  together,  while  Madame  Grison  established  her 
self  at  the  window.  Mademoiselle  Werner  had  singu 
larly  small  hands  for  so  large  a  woman,  and  she  let 

148 


AN  ETUDE  OF  BERTINI'S 


them  race  up  and  down  the  keyboard  with  marvelous 
skill.  She  was  evidently  an  accomplished  musician. 
Once  in  a  while  she  had  me  play  a  scale,  appealing 
to  the  old  woman  for  the  relation  between  the  differ 
ent  scales,  and  sometimes  even  for  their  composition. 
Occasionally  I  was  able  to  answer  these  questions 
myself,  and  this  greatly  amused  Mademoiselle  Werner, 
and  she  told  me  that  it  was  I  who  ought  to  be  the 
teacher.  But  we  did  no  one  thing  for  more  than  two 
minutes  at  a  time.  Once  I  believe  I  ran  the  scale  of 
G  major  over  three  octaves  and  back  again,  but  that 
was  the  longest  excursion  I  was  allowed  to  make. 
The  old  woman  interrupted,  the  maid  came  to  the 
door  to  ask  about  some  household  matters,  or  was 
called  and  bidden  to  look  up  some  music  in  the  cellar. 
Mademoiselle  Werner  dashed  off  a  roulade.  Then 
she  would  talk,  perhaps  ten  minutes  at  a  time,  and 
not  a  note  would  be  struck. 

"  I  ought  not  to  teach  you  music,"  she  said  ;  "  I  can 
not  do  it ;  I  do  not  know  it  myself ;  I  never  learned. 
Yes,  I  play ;  it  is  true.  But  do  you  know  how  I  do 
it?  It  is  by  instinct.  It  is  all  in  my  heart  and  not 
in  my  head.  I  am  a  genuine  child  of  fantasy.  With 
me  it  is  all  impulse,  not  at  all  the  reflection.  Yes,  I 
improvise.  I  never  know  what  it  will  be  like.  I  do 
not  see  the  notes  ;  I  only  feel,"  — she  pushed  me  aside 
unconsciously,  and  played  for  several  minutes.  It 
was  entrancing  music,  full  of  delicate  sentiment,  but 
with  an  undercurrent  of  tragedy  that  fairly  frightened 
me.  She  broke  off  as  abruptly  as  she  had  begun,  and 

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JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


went  on  speaking.  "  I  have  not  always  played.  It 
has  only  been  within  the  last  few  years.  I  am  not  a 
musician,  I  am  an  artist.  But  once  I  had  to  speak  in 
music.  It  was  after  my  dear  mother  died,  and  my  heart 
was  breaking.  I  went  to  an  old  friend,  a  musician. 
I  told  him  he  must  teach  me  to  play.  He  understood. 
He  had  loved  my  dear  mother  when  she  was  a  girl. 
He  put  me  to  sleep  —  what  do  you  call  it  ?  —  yes, 
hypnotism,  that  is  it.  He  hypnotized  me.  That  was 
the  way  I  learned  to  play.  Is  it  not  so,  ma  cousine  ?  " 
The  old  woman  grunted.  "  So  you  see,  I  do  not 
know  how  to  play ;  I  only  play ;  "  and  Mademoiselle 
Werner  laughed  as  delightfully  as  a  child  would,  in 
telling  you  of  some  prank. 

I  really  wanted  to  play  a  few  notes  and  began  run 
ning  one  of  the  scales,  when  Mademoiselle  Werner 
happened  to  glance  out  of  the  window  and  notice  that 
the  sunset  was  very  beautiful.  She  sprang  to  her 
feet  and  cried  impetuously,  "  Come,  it  is  much  too 
beautiful  to  remain  indoors.  Let  us  go  out  on  the 
terrasse  for  a  time.  Come,  ma  cousine ;  come,  Mr. 
Percyfield!" 

The  old  woman  declined  to  leave  the  house,  but  sat 
at  the  window  where  she  could  see  the  sunset  and  the 
terrasse.  She  was,  however,  out  of  hearing.  Made 
moiselle  Werner  and  I  hurried  out  to  the  terrasse  and 
sat  down  on  a  bench  facing  the  mountains.  The  sun 
set  was  magnificent.  It  was  quite  comparable  to  the 
entrancing  music  that  Mademoiselle  Werner  had  just 
been  playing.  The  valley  below  us  and  the  lower 

150 


AN   ETUDE   OF  BERTINI'S 


hills  were  passing  into  the  shadow,  and  the  great 
earth  circle  that  separates  night  and  day  was  creeping 
up  toward  the  eternal  snow  on  the  bosom  of  Mont 
Blanc.  The  sky  itself  was  on  fire  with  orange  and 
gold  against  a  background  of  luminous  yellow,  and 
that  fascinating  green  which  one  sees  only  in  the  sky. 
To  the  east  there  were  heavy  clouds  of  purple  touched 
with  the  yellow  and  rose  glint  of  the  sunset.  There 
was  something  almost  terrifying  in  the  beauty,  like 
the  undercurrent  in  Mademoiselle  Werner's  music. 
It  seemed  daring  even  to  be  looking  at  it.  I  glanced 
at  Mademoiselle  Werner.  The  sunset  glow  was  re 
flected  in  her  face.  I  think  I  have  never  seen  any 
one  look  so  beautiful.  This  child  of  nature,  this  great, 
simple  soul,  living  as  she  did  absolutely  in  the  present 
moment,  was  living  now  the  splendid  drama  of  the 
sunset.  Her  face  was  radiant,  transfigured.  It  was 
as  if  she  saw  the  open  gate  of  heaven. 

I  think  that  Mademoiselle  Werner  entirely  forgot 
my  presence.  I  was  not  sorry,  for  it  was  not  a  time 
for  speech.  We  have  mighty  words  in  the  language, 
but  they  are  hopelessly  inadequate  in  the  face  of  Na 
ture.  One  must  be  content  to  feel  the  beauty  and  to 
leave  unuttered  the  things  that  are  inexpressible. 

Presently  a  noise  startled  Mademoiselle  Werner. 
It  was  only  the  gardener.  He  was  raking  the  little 
pebbles  on  the  path.  "  Alfred,"  she  cried,  "  is  it  not 
entrancing  ?  " 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle,  it  is  magnificent,"  a  deep 
bass  voice  called  back.  There  was  considerable  feel- 

151 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


ing  in  it,  though  I  doubt  not  that  he  was  often  called 
from  his  meditations  into  the  glory  of  the  present  mo 
ment  and  was  perhaps  a  bit  used  to  it. 

"  I  always  speak  so  to  my  people,"  said  Mademoiselle 
Werner,  partly  in  explanation  and  partly  apologet 
ically.  "  They  ought  not  to  live  with  us  and  not  grow 
better.  Do  you  think  they  ought,  Mr.  Percyfield? 
It  is  terrible  to  be  just  a  body  and  not  to  have  a  soul. 
Or  to  have  a  soul  and  to  have  it  asleep ; "  —  then,  rais 
ing  her  voice,  "  ma  cousine,  is  it  not  heavenly  ?  Call 
Ida  and  Sophie  and  tell  them  to  go  now  into  the 
garden.  It  is  wicked  to  be  in  the  kitchen." 

The  old  woman  only  grunted,  for  Madame  Grison 
was  not  much  given  to  conversation,  so  Mademoiselle 
Werner  herself  did  the  calling  —  "  Ida,  Sophie,  come 
quickly !  It  will  be  too  late." 

Then  I  saw  two  stolid  peasant  girls  come  out  of  the 
house,  and  walk  towards  the  edge  of  the  woods. 
They  stood  there  patiently  with  their  faces  turned  to 
wards  the  sky.  I  could  not  help  wondering  what  they 
saw.  Certainly  not  what  Mademoiselle  Werner  saw. 
She  herself  sat  there  like  a  worshiper,  with  her  hands 
tightly  clasped.  She  continued  to  look  across  the 
valley,  but  the  light  was  fading  now,  and  she  went  on 
talking.  "  It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  be  shut  out  from 
all  this.  How  can  they  be  so  cruel  as  to  shut  any  one 
up  for  life,  — for  life,  —  think  of  it,  Mr.  Percyfield ! 
That  was  what  they  did  to  the  peasant  who  killed  the 
Empress  of  Austria.  It  was  shocking,  brutal,  to  kill 
a  harmless  woman  that  way.  But,  Monsieur,  it  was 

152 


AN  ETUDE   OF  BERTINI'S 


the  evil  of  a  moment.  They  could  have  hung  him,  or 
they  could  have  tried  to  soften  and  redeem  him.  But 
this  —  it  is  too  dreadful.  He  is  shut  up  for  life,  and 
each  day  his  soul  grows  darker  and  more  embittered." 
Mademoiselle  Werner  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
As  she  had  lived  the  ecstasy  of  the  sunset,  so  she 
lived  the  tragedy  of  the  condemned.  In  a  moment, 
she  dashed  her  hands  down  and  turned  to  me  appeal- 
ingly,  "  You  are  a  man,  Mr.  Percyfield.  Make  them 
stop  doing  these  dreadful  things.  Do  not  let  them 
shut  any  one  up  for  life,  no  matter  what  evil  he  has 
put  into  one  wild  moment.  It  is  because  I  have  had 
trouble,  moi,  that  I  feel  so  deeply  for  those  who  sor 
row.  Has  Mademoiselle  de  Candolle  told  you  any 
thing  of  my  life  ?  No  ?  There  has  been  a  cloud  hang 
ing  over  me  —  even  sometimes,  I  think,  Monsieur, 
over  my  mind.  No,  I  am  not  mad.  But  it  was  this 
way.  Six  years  ago  I  lost  my  dear  mother.  It  was 
as  if  my  own  life  went  out.  My  body  was  here,  but 
my  spirit  was  in  the  grave.  Have  you,  too,  suffered  ? 
Ah,  then,  you  will  understand.  And  there  were  other 
troubles.  I  painted,  oh,  yes,  I  painted.  It  was  all  I 
could  do.  It  was  that  thing  that  kept  me  from  going 
mad.  But  I  could  not  sell  my  pictures.  They  were 
too  tragic.  An  artist,  Monsieur,  puts  his  soul  into  his 
pictures.  It  is  what  you  must  put  into  your  books, 
your  very  soul.  They  were  well  painted,  those  pic 
tures.  Yes,  I  know  they  were  well  painted.  But  no 
one  would  buy  them.  The  people  looked  at  them  and 
wept,  for  there  was  no  hope  in  those  pictures.  I  was 

153 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


worried  as  well  as  sad.  We  had  our  house  in  Geneva, 
ma  cousine  and  I,  and  then  we  had  this  little  house  in 
the  woods,  and  we  were  paying  rent  for  both  of  these 
places.  Ma  cousine's  fortune  is  not  large,  and  I,  I  have 
only  my  hands.  What  could  I  do,  Monsieur  ?  Then 
suddenly  everything  changed.  The  proprietor  who 
owned  this  little  house  was  a  drunken  fellow.  He 
could  not  keep  it.  It  was  taken  for  debt.  The  new 
proprietor  sold  it  to  ma  cousine  very  favorably.  We 
gave  up  the  house  in  Geneva.  Now  we  have  no  rent 
at  all  to  pay.  We  seem  suddenly  to  be  rich,  for  ma 
cousine's  little  fortune  is  enough.  And  now,  Monsieur, 
the  people  buy  my  pictures.  Yes,  I  have  put  hope 
into  them.  It  is  not  only  that  we  have  ceased  to 
worry  about  the  money.  But  something  else  happened. 
It  was  strange,  but  it  is  true,  Monsieur,  and  I  should 
like  to  tell  it  to  you.  I  have  no  one  to  talk  to.  Ma 
cousine  is  a  kind  woman.  She  has  given  me  this 
house  for  my  own  ;  she  treats  me  as  a  daughter. 
You  must  respect  that  old  woman  even  if  you  cannot 
admire  her.  But  she  is  coarse.  She  cannot  help  it. 
She  has  the  spleen.  She  loves  me,  but  she  does  not  un 
derstand  me.  I  am  all,  what  do  you  call  it  —  geist  ? 
Yes,  that  is  it,  I  am  all  geist.  I  should  be  quite 
alone,  were  it  not  for  that  strange  thing  that  happened 
to  me.  It  was  only  last  spring,  Monsieur,  that  the 
cloud  lifted  and  the  hope  came  back.  This  was  the 
way  it  happened.  I  had  been  in  Paris  to  see  the  pic 
tures.  I  did  not  want  to  go.  Ma  cousine  insisted. 
It  did  not  do  me  any  good.  I  knew  how  to  paint.  It 

154 


AN  ETUDE   OF  BERTINI'S 


was  the  soul  that  was  heavy.  Ma  cousine  met  me  in 
Geneva.  We  came  on  the  steamboat  out  to  Hermance. 
We  drove  up  to  this  little  house.  I  had  been  much 
agitated.  But  the  earth  was  very  beautiful  —  Mon 
Dieu,  how  beautiful  it  was !  The  trees  were  a  tender 
green.  The  flowers  were  springing  up  on  all  sides. 
The  air  was  so  fresh  and  very  sweet.  A  strange  peace 
came  into  my  heart.  I  thought  perhaps  that  I  was 
dying  and  that  I  was  going  to  my  dear  mother. 
When  we  reached  the  house,  I  begged  ma  cousine  to 
remain  below,  and  not  to  send  either  Ida  or  Sophie 
to  me.  I  went  upstairs  to  my  dear  mother's  room. 
We  had  always  kept  it  just  as  it  was  when  she  died. 
I  knelt  down  at  her  bed.  I  do  not  know  how  long  I 
remained  there.  My  dear  mother  came  and  stood  be 
side  me.  I  felt  her  presence.  Then  she,  too,  knelt, 
and  put  her  arms  around  me.  No,  I  did  not  see  her. 
But  I  knew  how  she  looked  without  opening  my  eyes. 
I  saw  her,  Monsieur,  with  the  spirit.  No,  she  did  not 
speak  to  me.  It  was  not  necessary.  I  felt  her  love 
in  my  heart.  That  strange  peace  took  complete  pos 
session  of  me.  And,  Monsieur,  it  has  never  left  me. 
It  was  my  resurrection." 

Mademoiselle  Werner  had  risen,  and  in  her  radiant 
beauty  she  looked,  indeed,  like  one  who  had  passed 
through  the  tomb,  and  had  left  there  all  that  was 
earthly  and  unspiritual.  By  this  time  the  sunlight 
bad  faded  from  even  the  highest  summits  of  the  Alps 
And  the  air  was  growing  chilly. 

"  Come,"  said  Mademoiselle  Werner.  "  Let  us  go 
155 


JOHN  PEKCYFIELD 


into  the  house  and  continue  the  lesson."  She  took 
my  hand  and  led  me,  as  she  would  have  done  a  child. 
And  indeed,  I  felt  myself  a  boy  in  the  presence  of  a 
spirit,  older  and  more  severely  tried. 

The  old  woman  was  still  in  the  drawing-room.  She 
had  lighted  a  lamp  and  placed  it  near  the  piano. 
Ida,  too,  had  been  successful,  and  had  found  the  piece 
of  music  that  Mademoiselle  Werner  wanted.  It  was 
an  etude  of  Bertini's.  I  went  through  it  very  clumsily 
indeed,  first  one  hand,  then  the  other,  then  both,  with 
long  pauses  when  the  notes  wandered  into  the  leger 
lines,  and  with  variations  in  the  tempo  that  must  have 
included  all  possible  fractions.  Afterwards  Made 
moiselle  Werner  played  it,  and  limited  as  the  compo 
sition  was,  it  now  sounded  like  rippling  music,  and  I 
found  it  hard  to  realize  that  it  was  the  same  piece. 
It  was  past  seven  when  I  rose  to  go.  Mademoiselle 
Werner  held  out  her  hand.  "  I  cannot  teach  you,  Mr. 
Percyfield,"  she  said,  "  because  I  do  not  know  myself. 
But  when  you  have  learned  to  read,  come,  and  we  will 
play  the  four-hand  pieces  together.  I  want  you  to 
keep  this  etude.  I  will  give  you  the  address  of  a  much 
better  teacher.  She  was  to  have  been  ma  belle-soaur, 
but  my  fiance  died."  She  wrote  the  address  in  my 
notebook  very  quickly.  She  had  marvelous  hands. 

Then  I  bowed  to  Madame  Grison,  took  Mademoi 
selle  Werner's  hand  for  a  moment  and  passed  out  into 
the  darkness.  It  was  still  August,  but  already  there 
was  the  odor  of  decayed  leaves  in  the  air.  As  I 
walked  back  to  the  Chateau,  I  had  a  strange,  un- 

156 


AN  ETUDE   OF  BERTINI'S 


earthly  feeling,  as  if  I  were  in  a  dream  world.  The 
white  limestone  road  stretched  through  the  gloom,  like 
a  ghostly  thread  in  the  void  of  space.  The  fields 
and  woodlands  were  confused  shadows.  I  was  glad 
to  find  myself  at  the  Chateau  again,  and  to  join  the 
Chatelaine  and  the  United  Kingdom  at  our  delayed 
dinner. 

I  could  not  easily  forget  that  first  afternoon  with 
Mademoiselle  Werner.  What  impressed  me  most  at 
the  time  was  her  improvising,  though  later,  I  think  it 
was  the  story  of  the  cloud  that  hung  over  her  spirit, 
and  of  her  resurrection  into  the  gladness  of  life.  It 
has  always  seemed  to  me  that  to  improvise  is  about 
the  most  wonderful  thing  that  a  man  can  do.  I  think 
if  I  could  improvise,  I  should  die  happy.  I  have  a 
friend  who  does  it.  But  like  other  obstinate  people, 
he  declines  to  be  a  musician.  He  is  merely  a  "  history- 
man,"  as  Charlotte  calls  him.  He  comes  to  see  me  on 
the  average  just  about  once  a  year,  but  his  visit  is 
always  a  long  one.  He  comes  very  early,  usually  at 
half  past  seven,  rings  the  bell  hesitatingly,  and  says 
that  he  has  run  in  for  half  an  hour's  talk.  This 
does  not  at  all  deceive  me,  for  I  know  perfectly  well 
that  he  will  linger  until  after  midnight. 

I  have  an  infallible  way  of  disposing  of  guests  who 
stay  too  long.  When  I  think  it  is  quite  time  for 
them  to  go  home,  I  withdraw  my  interest.  The  effect 
is  marvelous,  for  it  makes  the  room  seem  suddenly 
quite  empty.  I  had  once  a  young  fellow  calling  on  me 
who  was  not  at  all  expert  in  the  art  of  leaving.  He 

157 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


stayed  and  lie  stayed  and  he  stayed.  It  was  approach 
ing  midnight.  Charlotte  tells  me  satirically  that  I 
make  myself  too  interesting.  On  this  occasion  I  was 
growing  decidedly  sleepy.  Suddenly  I  resolved  to 
withdraw  my  interest.  The  young  fellow  sprang  up 
and  said  hurriedly,  "  Well,  Percyfield,  it 's  quite  time  I 
was  going."  For  the  moment  I  was  afraid  that  I  had 
spoken  aloud,  but  his  cordial  handshake  and  the  fact 
that  he  came  soon  again  entirely  reassured  me. 

This  method  of  speeding  the  parting  guest  may 
not  seem  entirely  hospitable,  but  really  I  never  use  it 
except  under  pretty  strong  provocation.  I  am  some 
thing  of  a  night-owl  myself,  and  should  rather  talk,  or 
even  be  talked  to  —  by  the  right  people  —  than  sleep. 
For  example,  there  is  my  college  chum,  the  naturalist. 
When  he  gets  to  talking  about  the  birds,  and  gives 
their  calls  and  tells  how  he  watches  them  in  the  forest, 
I  could  listen  all  night,  and  sometimes  I  come  pretty 
near  to  doing  so.  One  night,  I  remember,  he  stayed 
until  half  past  one  o'clock.  The  next  time  I  saw  him, 
he  called  out  to  me,  "  I  must  keep  better  hours, 
Percyfield.  Mother  was  sitting  up  for  me  the  other 
night." 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  She  looked  at  me,  then  she  looked  at  the  clock, 
and  then  she  said,  '  Poor  Mr.  Percyfield.'  " 

I  never  dismiss  the  history-man.  He  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  talkers  I  know.  I  never  read  his 
books,  for  I  don't  go  in  much  for  history,  but  I  dare 
say  I  get  the  better  and  more  human  side  of  him  dur- 

158 


AN  ETUDE  OF  BERTINI'S 


ing  his  visits.  There  is  time  for  several  things  to 
happen  in  the  course  of  a  five-hour  call,  and  usually 
among  other  things  he  plays  for  me.  It  makes  a 
pleasant  break.  He  used  sometimes  to  play  Meyer 
beer,  but  he  did  it  harshly,  and  I  took  little  pleasure 
in  that  part  of  the  programme.  But  afterwards  he 
would  play  very  gently  and  very  softly,  sweet,  low 
chords  that  showed  me  he  had  a  warm,  human  side  to 
him,  if  only  he  would  let  it  out.  Then  he  would  turn 
around  shyly  and  say,  "  You  never  heard  that  before, 
did  you  ?  "  and  I  would  shake  my  head,  knowing  full 
well  what  was  coming.  "  Well,"  he  would  go  on,  "  I 
never  played  it  before.  It  kept  running  through  my 
head  this  morning  before  I  got  up." 

On  one  of  these  annual  visits,  or  "  visitations,"  as 
Charlotte  humorously  called  them,  the  history-man 
found  us  still  at  dinner.  He  is  a  bashful  man,  and  I 
had  difficulty  in  persuading  him  to  join  us  for  a  plate 
of  cream  and  a  cup  of  black  coffee.  He  need  not  have 
been  afraid.  There  was  only  Charlotte,  my  aunt  Percy- 
field,  our  friend  of  many  talents,  —  the  one  we  call 
Miss  Polyhymnia,  —  and  myself.  We  put  the  history- 
man  next  to  Miss  Polyhymnia,  and  he  was  soon  more 
at  ease,  for  she  had  read  all  his  books  and  fortunately 
admired  them.  Presently  we  went  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and  the  hours  began  to  roll  around.  The  old 
French  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  is  in  good  order,  but 
we  never  wind  it  up,  for  Miss  Polyhymnia  says  it  is 
not  polite  to  be  forever  telling  your  guests  what  o'clock 
it  is.  As  she  usually  stops  overnight  with  Charlotte, 

159 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


she  can  speak  disinterestedly.  But  I  could  hear  the 
dining-room  clock  ticking  away.  It  struck  eight,  then 
nine,  then  ten.  My  aunt  Percyfield  is  an  old-fashioned 
gentlewoman  and  believes  in  retiring  early.  She  keeps 
the  same  hours  in  town  that  she  does  out  at  Uplands. 
Shortly  after  ten,  she  excused  herself  and  went  up  to 
bed.  Her  room  was  the  second  story  front,  directly 
over  the  drawing-room.  Presently  we  heard  the  un 
mistakable  thud  of  two  shoes  on  the  floor  above.  My 
aunt  Percyfield  must  have  dropped  them  from  the 
height  of  the  bed,  at  least,  for  otherwise  they  could 
never  have  made  so  much  noise.  I  knew  her  too  well 
to  think  that  it  was  accidental. 

"  Do  you  hear  that  ?  "  said  the  history-man. 

"  Yes,"  said  Charlotte,  with  perfect  composure,  "  but 
I  hoped  that  you  did  n't." 

It  was  then  that  I  asked  the  history-man  if  he  kept 
up  his  old  habit  of  improvising.  For  answer,  he  went 
to  the  piano  and  began  to  play  ;  not  so  well,  I  thought, 
as  when  we  were  alone,  but  still  very  sweetly.  When 
he  stopped,  and  we  had  all  praised  the  music,  I  began 
inquiring  how  he  did  it,  for  just  then  I  was  studying 
psychology,  and  was  much  interested  in  the  question 
of  method. 

The  history-man  looked  thoughtful.  "  I  don't  know 
exactly  how  I  do  it,"  he  said,  finally.  "  I  seem  to 
hear  a  voice,  and  I  follow  it  the  best  I  can.  You  've 
noticed  in  a  chorus  that  sometimes  one  voice  rings 
out  clear  and  high  above  all  the  rest.  I  do  not  see 
the  keys,  but  I  hear  that  leading  voice  and  try  to  catch 

160 


AN  ETUDE  OF  BERTINI'S 


it  in  the  air.  The  accompaniment  represents  the  other 
voices." 

We  were  all  deeply  interested,  and  Miss  Polyhym 
nia  wanted  to  know  if  he  could  improvise,  if  some  one 
else  suggested  a  line  of  thought.  The  history-man 
offered  to  try,  and  at  his  bidding,  Charlotte  read  a 
poem.  Of  all  difficult,  impossible  things  in  the  world, 
she  selected  my  dear  Matthew  Arnold's  "  Self-depend 
ence,"  the  poem  beginning,  "  Weary  of  myself,  and 
sick  of  asking  what  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be."  I 
was  about  to  cry  out  that  the  task  was  unfair,  but  our 
improvisatore  went  again  to  the  piano,  and  turned  the 
poem  into  a  fine  bit  of  subjective  music.  Charlotte 
and  Miss  Polyhymnia  were  less  impressed  than  I  was, 
for  I  don't  think  they  realized  how  difficult  the  task 
was.  My  own  praise,  however,  was  warm  enough  to 
cover  any  deficiencies  on  their  part  —  or,  at  least,  I 
hope  it  was. 

Miss  Polyhymnia  knows  her  Matthew  Arnold  by 
heart,  and  so  I  asked  her  if  she  would  not  repeat  some 
lines  with  a  little  more  of  the  outer  world  in  them. 
She  looked  into  the  fire  a  moment,  and  then  throwing 
back  her  head,  repeated  in  a  voice  that  was  itself 
music,  the  last  part  of  Sohrab  and  Rustum.  The 
father,  you  remember,  sits  with  his  dead  son  on  the 
sands  by  the  river,  and  then  comes  that  sudden  break 
from  human  anguish  to  the  calm  of  Nature,  —  "  But 
the  majestic  river  floated  on,  out  of  the  mist  and  hum 
of  that  low  land,  into  the  frosty  starlight."  I  was 
proud  of  the  history-man  and  was  almost  minded  to 

161 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


read  his  books.  He  gave  us  the  picture  in  his  music, 
quite  perfectly,  —  the  anguish  of  the  father  who  had 
unwittingly  slain  his  own  son ;  the  pathos  of  the  soli 
tary  old  man  sitting  there  on  the  sands  with  his  dead  ; 
then  the  calm  onflowing  of  the  Oxus,  and  finally  the 
low  breakers  and  dull  boom  of  the  Polar  Sea.  It 
reminded  me  of  Rubinstein's  Kamennoi-Ostrow,  where 
the  surge  of  the  Baltic  forms  the  background  for  the 
old  Gregorian  chant  of  the  monks. 

In  spite  of  my  aunt  Percyneld's  dreadful  hint,  the 
history-man  remained  until  after  midnight,  and  even 
then  Charlotte  and  Miss  Polyhymnia  and  I  sat  over 
the  fire  a  full  half  hour  longer,  talking  about  many 
things.  Miss  Polyhymnia  is  a  person  with  a  great 
passion  for  symbolizing.  Besides  giving  people  rather 
fanciful  names,  she  has  a  fashion  of  describing  them 
in  terms  of  color.  Charlotte  is  royal-blue,  I  am  laven 
der,  and  my  aunt  Percyfield  is  burnt-siena.  Miss 
Polyhymnia  usually  sends  me  a  New  Year's  card,  and 
she  is  apt  to  write  on  it,  "  May  the  philosopher  and 
man  of  sentiment  realize  lavender."  She  had  some 
difficulty  in  disposing  of  the  history-man,  and  it  was 
that  that  kept  us  up  so  late.  Finally  she  decided  that 
he  was  a  complex  character,  and  assigned  him  pinkish 
brown,  the  color  of  Lisbon  marble.  Then  we  were 
able  to  go  to  bed. 

I  wonder  what  name  and  color  Miss  Polyhymnia 
would  give  to  Margaret. 

Mademoiselle  Werner's  belle-soeur  that  was  to  have 
been  preferred  to  come  to  the  Chateau  to  give  the 

162 


AN  ETUDE   OF  BEKTINI'S 


lessons.  Her  name  was  Martigny.  She  was  so  dif 
ferent  from  Mademoiselle  Werner  that  often  I  looked 
at  her  and  wondered  what  kind  of  a  man  the  dead 
brother  could  have  been,  the  one  that  Mademoiselle 
Werner  was  to  have  married.  Madame  Martigny  was 
tall  and  angular,  always  dressed  in  black,  and  had  a 
chronic  stoop.  She  was  entirely  unimaginative,  but 
her  long,  bony  fingers  were  as  supple  almost  as  Made 
moiselle  Werner's,  and  she  proved  to  be  an  excellent 
teacher.  I  doubt  if  she  ever  improvised  a  dozen  notes, 
but  she  knew  music  thoroughly,  —  that  is,  the  objec 
tive  part  of  it.  My  own  slender  knowledge  of  tetra- 
chords,  scales,  major  and  minor,  dominant  fifths  and 
diminished  sevenths,  was  as  nothing  before  this  ency 
clopedia.  Madame  Martigny  made  me  work,  too, 
which  was  perhaps  her  greatest  service.  And  when  I 
stumbled  and  balked,  she  took  it  so  much  to  heart  that 
I  resolutely  tried  to  do  better.  I  learned  the  Etude 
of  Bertini's  and  indeed  a  whole  book  of  them.  It  was 
not  inspiring  gymnastics,  and  the  further  I  progressed 
the  more  I  realized  how  impossible  it  would  have  been 
for  Mademoiselle  Werner  to  have  gone  through  all 
this  drudgery  with  me.  But  I  was,  myself,  quite  will 
ing  to  pay  the  price,  for  it  meant  the  open  door  into 
a  modest  corner  of  paradise. 

Sometimes  I  would  work  for  weeks  without  making 
any  very  appreciable  progress.  But  gradually  I  found 
my  fingers  growing  less  and  less  stubborn,  and  the 
musical  score  more  and  more  of  an  open  book.  My 
great  reward,  however,  came  very  suddenly.  I  had 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


been  working  hard  for  fully  six  months,  three  lessons 
a  week,  and  an  hour  of  daily  practice,  —  or  perhaps 
I  ought  to  say  nightly  practice,  for  the  hour  was 
usually  from  eleven  until  midnight.  It  was  my  last 
lesson,  for  I  was  going  into  Italy  for  two  or  three 
months  the  very  next  day.  Madame  Martigny  ap 
peared  with  a  little  roll  in  her  hand.  We  always 
went  over  the  scales,  major  and  minor,  every  lesson, 
and  then  we  had  a  soul-trying  exercise  for  the  greater 
liberty  of  the  obstinate  ring-finger.  We  did  all  this 
as  usual,  and  then  Madame  Martigny  produced  her 
little  roll  and  untied  it.  It  was  a  prelude  of  Chopin's, 
and  she  put  it  on  the  music  rack  before  me.  I  glanced 
at  it,  and  to  my  own  vast  amazement,  proceeded  to 
play  it. 

Great  God,  what  a  thrill  went  over  me ! 

It  was  a  simple  prelude,  slow  and  easy  chords,  but 
had  it  been  the  Twelfth  Nocturne  itself  or  one  of  the 
Ballades,  I  could  not  have  been  more  moved.  To 
have  loved  music  passionately  and  to  have  believed 
the  door  closed,  and  then  suddenly  to  find  it  open  — 
it  was  like  a  revelation.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  play 
for  people.  As  Madame  Martigny  humorously  re 
marked,  I  am  too  old  to  blossom  out  as  a  boy  pianist. 
But  to  play  these  sweet  and  simple  things  for  myself 
will  keep  up  my  courage  for  that  next  incarnation 
when  I  am  to  sing  and  to  play  the  violin. 

Madame  Martigny's  pleasure  was  touching.  It  was 
a  satisfaction  to  her,  of  course,  to  have  been  so  suc 
cessful  a  teacher,  but  she  is  an  unselfish  soul,  as  I  sup- 

164 


AN  ETUDE   OF  BERTINI'S 


pose  every  good  teacher  must  be,  and  I  know  that  her 
deepest  pleasure  was  in  my  own  very  evident  delight. 

I  had  been  many  times  to  see  Mademoiselle  Werner, 
and  had  come  to  have  a  genuine  affection  for  her.  I 
found  her  always  the  same,  living  absolutely  in  the 
present  moment,  and  in  spite  of  her  excitability,  radi 
ant  with  her  new-found  peace.  She  spoke  to  me  of 
many  things,  gravely  and  reverently,  but  with  all  the 
frankness  and  directness  of  a  child.  In  everything 
she  said  there  was  that  same  intenseness,  that  same 
vitality,  that  had  made  such  an  impression  on  me 
at  the  time  of  our  first  talk  on  the  terrasse.  She 
often  played  for  me,  but  she  had  never  asked  me  how 
my  own  music  came  on.  I  rather  marveled  at  it. 
After  that  last  lesson  with  Madame  Martigny,  I  went 
up  to  Mon  Bijou  to  bid  Mademoiselle  Werner  good-by. 
Then  for  the  first  time  she  asked  me  about  my  music. 
I  told  her  the  story  of  the  prelude.  She  listened  with 
rapt  attention.  When  she  broke  the  silence  she  spoke 
very  slowly,  looking  directly  into  my  face  all  the  time. 

"  You  have  had  a  lesson,"  she  said,  "  every  Monday 
and  Wednesday  and  Friday  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  and  at  night  you  have  practiced  from 
eleven  to  twelve." 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  never  told  you,  Mademoiselle  Werner. 
How  did  you  know  it  ?  " 

"  Know  it  ?  "  she  laughed  softly.  "  It  was  I,  Mon 
sieur,  who  arranged  it  all." 

I  was  completely  mystified.  "  I  do  not  understand," 
I  said  stupidly. 

165 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


"  My  friend,"  said  Mademoiselle  Werner,  more 
gravely,  "  do  you  not  know  that  you  live  very  near 
the  boundary  between  the  visible  world  and  the  un 
seen?  Do  you  not  feel  it?  Are  you  blind?  This 
quest  of  yours,  that  you  call  in  your  droll  way  the 
search  for  the  indeterminate  good,  began  when  you 
were  a  very  little  boy.  It  has  been  at  the  bottom  of 
everything  that  you  have  done.  It  is  this  that  has 
driven  you  from  one  pursuit  to  another,  that  will 
go  on  driving  you.  Do  you  know  what  it  is,  this 
search  of  yours  ?  You  do  not  know?  I  will  tell  you. 
In  reality,  it  is  the  search  for  God."  Mademoiselle 
Werner  had  risen,  as  she  always  did  when  she  was 
deeply  moved,  and  stood  directly  in  front  of  me.  She 
had  the  simple,  primitive  dignity  that  I  fancy  might 
have  attached  to  a  prophetess  of  Israel.  Her  large 
eyes  had  in  them  even  more  than  their  usual  earnest 
clairvoyance.  She  continued  speaking:  "You  will 
succeed.  I  know  that  you  will  succeed.  You  are 
good  and  true,  —  it  is  all  that  is  required.  You  have 
begun  to  live  the  life.  Already  you  have  consciously 
started  on  the  Path.  It  commences  here  and  ends  in 
infinity,  with  the  Perfect  One.  The  greater  part  of 
your  knowledge,  do  you  know  where  it  comes  from  ? 
It  comes  to  you  by  instinct.  Is  it  not  so?  Yes,  I 
know  that  I  am  right.  Being  this  sort  of  a  man,  Mr. 
Percyfield,  it  is  possible  for  those  who  are  strong  in 
the  spirit  to  speak  to  you  in  other  ways  than  by  word 
of  mouth.  I  arranged  with  Madame  Martigny  about 
the  hours  for  the  lessons.  But  the  hours  for  the  prac- 

166 


AN  ETUDE   OF  BERTINI'S 


ticing  I  arranged  with  you  directly."     She  paused  and 
regarded  me  attentively. 

"  I  think  I  understand,  Mademoiselle  Werner.  It 
was  a  case  of  suggestion." 

"  Yes,  my  friend.  I  could  do  it  with  safety.  I 
knew  that  the  late  hour  would  not  hurt  you." 

"  But,  dear  Mademoiselle  Werner,  why  did  you  do 
all  this?  Why  did  you  want  me  to  practice  at 
night?" 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  you  that. 
But  I  know  that  you  will  not  be  offended.  I  am  dis 
engaged  at  those  hours.  These  wintry  days  I  must 
stop  my  painting  at  four  o'clock.  I  retire  a  little  be 
fore  eleven,  but  I  do  not  sleep  until  it  is  midnight." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say,"  I  cried  incredulously, 
"  that  you  have  given  me  your  conscious  thought  every 
lesson,  every  hour  of  my  practice  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mademoiselle  Werner,  simply,  "  I  have 
helped  you  with  my  thought." 

I  could  not  speak.  I  who  have  had  great  kindness 
from  all  the  world,  had  never  yet  had  kindness  such  as 
this.  Ten  hours  a  week  for  six  months,  Mademoiselle 
Werner,  all  unasked,  had  been  working  for  me  in  her 
spirit.  It  mattered  not  whether  the  work  had  been  effec 
tive  or  not,  for  these  things  are  still  beyond  my  compre 
hension,  but  the  gentle,  human  service  had  been  the 
same.  I  was  quite  overcome  and  could  not  break  the 
silence. 

Mademoiselle  Werner  spoke  to  me  gently.  "  My 
friend,  you  are  not  offended?" 

167 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


"No,  Mademoiselle  Werner,  I  am  not  offended. 
How  could  I  be  offended  ?  But  I  am  too  deeply  touched 
for  words.  No  one  has  ever  shown  me  such  goodness, 
such  devotion." 

"  It  is  nothing,"  she  answered,  lightly.  "  You  have 
given  me  a  better  service,  your  comradeship  and  your 
sympathy.  This  —  it  is  a  little  thing.  But  it  was 
aU  that  I  could  do." 

I  took  Mademoiselle  "Werner's  hand,  and  pressed  it 
for  a  moment  to  my  lips.  It  was  not  after  the  gal 
lant  manner  of  the  French  that  I  did  it,  but  after  the 
heartfelt  manner  of  a  simple  Pennsylvanian. 

The  following  day  I  went  into  Italy. 


168 


CHAPTER  VH 

CROSS  ROADS 

THERE  are  two  hotels  at  Pompeii,  the  Pension 
Suisse  and  the  Hotel  Diomede.  I  stayed  at  the  Pen 
sion  Suisse,  which  was  a  piece  of  great  good  luck. 

I  went  down  from  Naples  on  the  evening  train.  It 
must  have  been  after  eight  when  I  reached  Pompeii. 
There  were  no  other  passengers  getting  off  there,  and 
I  was  poor  prey,  for  I  carried  only  my  suit  case  and 
an  umbrella.  There  were  at  least  fifteen  hungry  por 
ters  waiting  for  me.  I  felt  sorry  for  them,  but  no 
amount  of  pity  could  divide  my  suit  case  into  two  por 
tions  without  seriously  damaging  it.  As  it  was,  one 
able-bodied  man  carried  my  umbrella,  and  another 
took  possession  of  my  case.  A  third  tried  to  help  me, 
but  was  denied  the  privilege.  Considering  that  I 
carry  both  case  and  umbrella  myself  without  the  least 
inconvenience,  I  felt  that  two  men  were  almost  suffi 
cient.  The  other  men  would  have  much  enjoyed  car 
rying  my  hat,  my  coat,  and  one  glove  apiece,  but  as  I 
preferred  to  wear  these,  my  two  men  and  I  proceeded 
to  the  Pension  Suisse,  while  the  other  porters,  reduced 
to  the  unlucky  number  of  thirteen,  followed  us  grum 
bling.  When  I  got  to  the  Pension  Suisse,  —  it  is 
only  a  step  from  the  station,  —  the  proprietor  said  it 

169 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


was  very  regrettable,  but  he  had  not  a  single  chamber 
vacant,  and  he  knew  the  Hotel  Diomede  was  equally 
crowded  ;  if,  however,  Monsieur  would  be  contented 
to  go  to  the  dependance,  he  would  find  it  entirely 
comfortable  and  everything  could  be  happily  arranged. 
It  seemed  to  be  Hobson's  choice,  and  Monsieur  took 
it.  Although  the  dependance  was  stated  to  be  very 
near,  it  was  thought  wiser  to  drive  there.  After  a 
due  amount  of  waiting,  the  proprietor's  son  appeared 
with  the  wildest,  most  top-heavy  little  vehicle  that  I 
have  ever  intrusted  my  person  to.  It  was  a  sort  of 
open  chaise,  perched  aloft  on  top  of  four  little  wheels 
that  looked  like  wooden  spools.  The  pony  was  small, 
but  wicked.  When  we  were  packed  in,  and  two  other 
porters  had  disposed  of  my  suit  case  and  umbrella,  the 
junior  proprietor  cracked  his  whip  and  off  we  started. 
He  drove  more  recklessly  than  Jehu,  and  literally  I 
had  to  hold  on.  This  speed  was  intended,  I  presume, 
to  diminish  the  seeming  distance  between  the  pension 
and  the  dependance,  but  it  was  a  good  half  mile  at 
any  speed. 

Fortunately  the  moon  was  shining,  and  the  ride 
not  without  interest.  To  the  left  of  the  white  road 
were  the  glistening  walls  and  buildings  of  ancient 
Pompeii,  looking  like  the  ghost  of  a  city.  To  the 
right  of  the  road  were  equally  white  fields,  with  here 
and  there  the  black  shadow  of  a  thick-clustering  orange 
tree.  I  had  been  living  a  busy  life  in  Rome  for  some 
weeks  past,  and  this  sudden  transfer  from  the  imperial 
city  to  deserted,  moon-struck  Pompeii,  was  like  pass- 

170 


CROSS   ROADS 


ing  into  a  dream.  The  dependance  heightened  the 
unreality.  It  stood  white  and  silent  in  the  midst  of 
the  dark  foliage  of  an  orange  orchard,  looking  as 
ghostly  and  deserted  as  the  ruins  on  the  other  side  of 
the  road.  I  asked  the  junior  proprietor  if  it  were  a 
part  of  the  ruins,  and  this  he  considered  such  a  good 
joke  that  he  kept  repeating  it,  —  "  A  part  of  ze  runes, 
yez,  yez,  a  part  of  ze  runes,"  —  laughing  the  while  and 
showing  his  white  teeth.  I  was  glad  he  laughed,  for 
though  I  am  neither  nervous  nor  a  coward,  the  deso 
lation  of  my  prospective  abode  smote  me  with  some 
thing  almost  akin  to  a  panic.  The  cheery  laugh  of  the 
junior  proprietor  was  the  only  warm-blooded  human 
element  in  the  whole  uncanny  scene. 

The  ground  floor  of  the  dependance  was  occupied 
by  a  sturdy  contadino,  looking  for  all  the  world  like 
a  well-fed  brigand,  and  by  his  old  mother,  of  a  kindly 
face,  but  a  bit  cunning.  They  both  came  out  at  the 
sound  of  our  approach,  the  old  woman  carrying  an 
antique  lantern.  It  seemed  that  the  wicked  pony 
needed  no  hitching.  He  only  cared  to  run  away  when 
there  was  some  one  in  the  chaise  to  enjoy  the  fun.  So 
the  four  of  us  mounted  an  outside  stairway  that  led 
to  an  open  stone  platform  running  the  length  of  the 
house,  and  certainly  fifteen  feet  broad.  From  this 
platform  the  world  looked  even  more  unreal  than  be 
fore.  Back  of  me  rose  the  walls  of  this  curious  house, 
white  and  silent  as  a  tomb.  In  front  of  me  extended 
the  billowy  tops  of  the  orange  trees,  throwing  back 
the  moonlight  here  and  there  where  it  happened  to 

171 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


catch  the  glossy  leaves  at  just  the  right  angle,  but 
showing  underneath  nothing  but  a  sea  of  mysterious, 
lurking  blackness.  We  passed  through  a  double  door 
directly  into  the  room  which  the  contadino  said  I 
should  have  to  occupy,  as  it  was  the  only  one  ready. 
The  room  went  with  all  the  rest.  It  was  really  not  a 
room,  but  a  long  hall.  We  had  entered  at  one  end. 
At  the  other  end  was  another  double  door,  leading 
into  mysterious  regions  beyond.  On  each  side  were 
likewise  double  doors.  There  was  not  a  single  win 
dow.  And  further,  as  if  there  were  not  doors  enough, 
I  found  a  trap  door  in  the  centre  of  the  floor.  It 
would  be  too  bad  to  have  such  a  unique  apartment 
fail  of  completeness.  I  really  hoped  to  find  a  similar 
door  in  the  ceiling,  but  I  could  not  detect  one  in  the 
uncertain  light.  However,  I  shall  always  please  myself 
by  believing  that  there  was  one  there. 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  looked  very  lonely,  or 
whether  it  was  simply  on  general  principles,  but  when 
the  junior  proprietor  drove  away,  he  tried  to  cheer  me 
up  by  telling  me  that  the  contadino  and  his  old  mother 
were  really  very  good  people,  and  that  an  American 
lady  was  occupying  one  of  the  larger  apartments  on 
the  same  floor.  The  first  part  of  his  remark  I  had  to 
take  on  faith,  but  the  latter  part  I  threw  out  altogether 
as  a  bit  of  pure  fiction.  I  felt  sure  that  no  American 
lady  would  spend  a  single  night  alone  in  such  a  for 
lorn  old  place. 

Then  they  all  left  me,  and  without  even  a  decent 
lamp  or  candle  to  keep  me  company,  nothing  but  a 

172 


CEOSS   ROADS 


veritable  tallow  dip  in  an  ancient,  saucer-like  recep 
tacle.  I  might  have  been  an  old  Roman  gentleman 
going  to  his  retirement,  save  that  I  had  probably  to 
occupy  myself  with  too  much  clothing,  and  had  the 
even  greater  inconvenience  of  a  memory  of  modern 
improvements. 

Before  going  to  bed,  I  took  my  tallow  dip  and  made 
a  tour  of  inspection.  The  double  doors  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room  were  fastened,  but  on  the  other  side, 
so  that  the  fact  added  nothing  to  my  sense  of  security. 
The  same  was  true  of  the  double  doors  on  the  left. 
The  double  doors  leading  to  the  stone  platform  could 
be  fastened  inside,  but  as  there  was  no  window,  and  I 
am  a  great  stickler  for  fresh  air,  I  debated  for  some 
time  as  to  whether  I  had  not  better  leave  them  open  and 
trust  to  good  luck.  I  had  unfortunately  nearly  a  thou 
sand  francs  about  me,  and  I  had  no  mind  to  lose  that 
amount.  Finally  I  decided  to  lock  the  doors.  There 
was  a  crack  under  them  as  broad  as  one  of  my  aunt 
Percyfield's  hints,  so  after  all,  I  got  some  air.  When 
I  tried  the  fourth  pair  of  double  doors,  those  on  the 
right  wall,  they  yielded  without  the  least  resistance, 
and  opened  part  way  into  the  darkness.  I  heard  a 
voice  say,  "  Excuse  me."  It  was  distinct  and  well-bred, 
apparently  a  woman's.  It  flashed  over  me  what  the 
junior  proprietor  had  said  about  the  American  lady. 
I  apologized  profusely,  explaining  that  it  was  such  a 
queer  old  place  that  I  felt  I  ought  to  lock  my  doors. 
The  voice  begged  me  not  to  be  distressed,  and  said 
that  it  was  all  right.  Do  what  I  could,  however,  it 

173 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


was  impossible  to  fasten  that  crazy  old  door,  even  in 
deed  to  make  it  stay  decently  shut,  so  finally  I  gave  it 
up,  and  undressed  in  the  dark. 

It  seemed  to  me  such  a  capital  place  for  wakening 
and  finding  your  throat  cut,  that  I  tried  to  sleep  with 
one  eye  open,  but  I  was  never  very  good  at  that  sort 
of  thing,  and  was  soon  fast  asleep.  It  must  have  been 
considerably  past  midnight  when  I  awoke  with  a  start 
to  find  a  bright  light  shining  directly  into  my  eyes.  I 
thought  the  time  had  come  for  something  to  happen. 
I  sat  bolt  upright  in  bed.  My  grandfather  Percyfield 
used  always  to  laugh  at  Charlotte  and  me  for  what  he 
called  our  rare  prudence  in  the  presence  of  danger. 
If  Charlotte  hears  a  noise  at  home,  she  flings  open 
her  door,  and  marches  straight  downstairs,  candle  in 
hand,  to  see  what  the  matter  is.  And  I  have  the 
same  instinct  of  investigation,  feeling  always  that  it  is 
better  to  know  with  what  you  have  to  deal.  For  the 
moment  I  was  too  dazzled  by  the  light  to  have  any 
very  clear  idea  as  to  what  was  going  on.  When  I 
found  my  wits,  I  saw  that  the  light  was  in  the  next 
apartment,  and  was  shining  into  my  eyes  through  the 
crack  in  those  crazy  doors.  It  was  the  apartment  in 
which  I  had  heard  the  voice. 

Thoroughly  alarmed,  I  rushed  over  to  the  doors. 
"  Madame,"  I  cried,  "  is  there  anything  wrong  ?  Do 
you  need  help  ?  " 

The  same  voice  came  back  to  me,  distinct  and  quite 
as  serene  as  the  evening  before.  "  No,  I  thank  you. 
Nothing  is  wrong.  I  could  not  sleep,  so  I  am  reading." 

174 


CEOSS   ROADS 


Again  I  apologized  and  went  back  to  bed.  I  was 
somewhat  ashamed  of  my  impetuousness,  but  the  place 
was  so  dismal  and  I  had  heard  such  tales  of  Italy  that 
it  did  not  occur  to  me  that  the  light  came  from  any 
thing  so  entirely  peaceable  as  a  midnight  student. 
Pretty  soon  I  heard  a  chair  being  moved  against  the 
obstinate  door,  and  then  the  light  ceased  to  shine  in 
my  eyes. 

I  settled  myself  once  more,  and  was  just  falling 
asleep,  when  something  soft  brushed  across  my  face. 
Again  I  sat  bolt  upright.  Some  small  object  fell  to 
the  floor  and  scampered  across  the  room.  It  was  evi 
dently  a  mouse.  By  this  time  I  began  to  have  the 
feeling  that  I  was  living  in  a  comic  opera,  or  some 
other  sort  of  a  burlesque,  and  the  feeling  not  being  at 
all  agreeable,  I  went  at  once  to  sleep,  and  did  not 
waken  until  the  proper  season.  I  noticed  that  the 
doors  on  the  right  wall  were  still  successfully  bar 
ricaded.  I  partly  opened  the  doors  leading  out  on 
the  platform  so  as  to  have  a  little  more  light  and  air. 
Then  I  had  a  splendid  cold  bath,  and  by  the  time  I 
was  dressed,  I  felt  quite  on  the  top  of  the  wave. 

I  went  out  into  the  warm  sunshine.  At  the  Chateau 
it  was  still  winter,  but  here  in  Italy  the  spring  had 
come.  It  was  a  heavenly  morning.  The  sky  was  blue 
and  cloudless,  and  the  earth  seemed  literally  to  be 
smiling.  In  the  strong  sunshine,  the  orange  trees 
showed  their  rich  green  color,  lightened  here  and  there 
by  the  perfect  golden  fruit.  The  contadino  and  his 
mother  were  in  the  courtyard.  They  told  me  in  rough 

175 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


Neapolitan  dialect  to  go  into  the  orchard  and  help 
myself  to  the  oranges.  I  should  hardly  have  under 
stood  them,  had  the  words  not  been  helped  out  with 
gestures  so  perfect  that  they  seemed  to  make  all  words 
unnecessary.  I  had  no  knife  and  spoon  and  dainty 
Dresden  plate,  such  as  would  have  been  forthcoming 
at  Uplands,  but  nevertheless  it  was  an  ideal  way  of 
having  the  first  course  to  one's  breakfast,  to  pluck  the 
great  golden  fruit  from  the  trees  themselves,  and  to 
eat  it  on  the  spot  in  however  primitive  a  fashion. 
When  I  came  out  of  the  orchard,  the  contadino  asked 
me  how  many  oranges  I  had  taken  and  intimated 
that  they  were  two  soldi  apiece.  It  was  perfectly  just 
and  proper,  but  it  dashed  the  poetry  a  bit. 

Considering  that  Italy  is  a  land  of  fruit,  one  cannot 
help  being  struck  with  the  fact  that  fruit  is  very 
jealously  guarded.  The  walls  around  the  gardens  are 
too  high  to  be  ornamental,  and  the  pieces  of  nasty 
broken  glass  in  the  top  of  them  tell  a  story.  One 
feels,  indeed,  in  this  lovely  land  of  art  and  sunshine, 
with  its  walled  gardens  and  barred  windows  and  much 
bolted  doors,  that  life  has  too  much  of  the  safe-deposit- 
company  about  it  to  be  entirely  agreeable.  It  is  a  sad 
contrast  after  the  perfect  security  of  Switzerland.  I 
sometimes  wonder  whether  there  be  any  fruit  in  Italy 
that  people  feel  at  liberty  to  take  without  calling  it 
stealing.  It  is  certainly  not  oranges.  With  us  in 
America,  the  apple  undoubtedly  has  this  immunity. 
The  most  respectable  people  —  people  who  would  not 
touch  a  pin  without  your  permission  —  seem  to  feel 

176 


CROSS  ROADS 


free  to  take  another  man's  apples,  even  when  he  is 
not  looking.  I  think  they  must  reason  that  when 
Eve  stole  the  first  apple,  the  race  paid  so  heavily  for  it 
then  and  there  that  the  penalty  was  quite  exhausted, 
and  the  race  is  at  liberty  to  go  on  stealing  apples  to 
the  end  of  the  story. 

By  the  time  I  had  disposed  of  my  oranges  and  paid 
for  them,  the  junior  proprietor  and  his  wicked  little 
pony  had  come  to  fetch  me  to  breakfast.  We  took 
the  suit  case  and  umbrella  along,  as  there  would  be  a 
room  for  me  at  the  pension  when  I  came  back  from 
Vesuvius.  I  was  not  sorry  to  give  up  the  depend- 
ance. 

The  breakfast-room  was  quite  full  when  I  entered 
it,  and  others  kept  coming  and  going  while  I  drank 
my  coffee,  but  I  saw  no  one  who  seemed  to  answer  to 
my  picture  of  the  American  lady. 

After  breakfast  we  started  at  once  for  Vesuvius. 
There  were  four  other  persons  intending  to  make  the 
ascent  on  horseback,  a  German  officer  and  three 
American  girls,  two  of  whom  had  never  ridden  before. 
The  German,  being  a  Prussian,  took  the  best  horse. 
The  four  remaining  brutes  were  what  we  call  in  the 
South  "  sorry  "  animals.  I  suggested  that  the  best,  or 
the  least  bad  rather,  should  be  given  to  the  novices, 
and  that  my  compatriot  in  the  saddle  and  I  would 
take  what  was  left.  She  was  a  plucky  girl,  as  most 
horsewomen  are,  and  took  up  with  the  plan  very  will 
ingly.  They  were  all  mounted  except  myself.  I  took 
the  reins  in  my  left  hand,  and  put  one  foot  into  the 

177 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


stirrup,  when  my  horse  threw  his  hind  legs  into  the 
air  with  a  freedom  and  abandon  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  a  Texas  broncho.  I  do  not  know  whether 
this  was  from  pure  exuberance  of  spirits,  a  playful 
desire  to  have  his  little  fling  in  the  world,  or  from  less 
praiseworthy  motives.  At  any  rate,  I  backed  off  and 
asked  the  senior  proprietor  if  he  had  another  horse. 

"  Ah,  if  Monsieur  will  only  get  on  the  beast !  "  he 
cried,  "  he  will  find  him  an  excellent  animal." 

"  Have  you  another  horse  ?  " 

"  Ah,  if  Monsieur  will  only  get  on  !  It  is  a  very 
good  beast." 

44  Very  well,"  said  I,  "  then  I  will  walk ;  "  and  I 
started  to  follow  the  party  on  foot.  This  brought  the 
senior  proprietor  to  terms,  and  I  soon  had  a  fairly 
decent  mount.  I  noticed  that  the  guide  rode  the  re 
jected  beast  and  was  not  in  a  very  good  humor.  Two 
small  boys  also  accompanied  us  on  foot  under  the 
mistaken  impression  that  they  were  of  some  use. 

It  was  a  day  to  be  remembered.  In  the  first  place 
the  novices  got  on  badly,  so  badly  in  fact  that  I  made 
a  mental  note  to  the  effect  that  people  who  do  not 
know  how  to  ride  ought  to  learn  in  private.  It  was 
impossible  to  walk  all  the  way,  and  when  those  raw- 
boned  horses  trotted,  the  girls  went  thumping  up  and 
down  in  the  saddles  until,  I  fear  me,  they  forgot  it  was 
a  pleasure  trip.  One  of  them  soon  lost  all  her  hair 
pins,  and  as  she  had  rather  long  red  hair,  she  made 
a  somewhat  striking  picture.  The  other  novice  was 
tender-hearted,  and  was  several  times  reduced  to  tears 

178 


CROSS   ROADS 


because  one  of  the  small  boys,  when  we  came  to  the 
steeper  part,  would  cling  to  her  horse's  tail.  Then 
the  guide  must  take  us  a  considerable  distance  out  of 
our  way  to  a  forlorn  old  inn  that  we  might  buy  some 
very  poor  red  wine.  We  quite  hurt  his  feelings  by 
declining  absolutely  to  have  any  of  the  stuff.  He 
said  that  travelers  always  bought  some.  If  he  uses 
that  argument  in  future,  he  will  not  be  a  truthful 
man. 

The  ride  itself  was  an  experience.  We  made  our 
way  through  quaint  little  villages,  where  our  small 
boys  contended  with  other  small  boys  for  the  profit  of 
opening  gates  that  had  apparently  been  erected  for 
this  sole  purpose.  We  rode  among  carefully  tended 
vineyards,  where  brown-legged,  red-cheeked  boys,  al 
most  as  beautiful  as  Apollo,  were  working  over  the 
dry  volcanic  soil.  We  climbed  the  gentle  slopes  of 
the  mountain  into  the  keener  air,  and  all  the  while  the 
prospect  was  growing  more  marvelous.  Then  the 
vineyards  gave  place  to  bare  ashes,  and  mixed  with 
these  were  copper-colored  streams  of  lava,  showing 
still  the  seethings  and  whirlpools  of  a  more  plastic 
period.  And  all  the  time  we  kept  going  up  and  up 
into  the  clear  blue  ether,  and  the  world  below  was 
growing  smaller. 

The  bridle-path  came  to  an  end  in  a  wild  little  am 
phitheatre  in  the  lava.  It  looked  for  all  the  world 
like  a  bandit's  rendezvous,  and  it  was  filled  with  a 
group  of  picturesque  natives,  careless-looking,  hand 
some  fellows,  who  might  well  have  played  the  tradi- 

179 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


tional  role.  The  girls  were  plainly  frightened,  and  I 
was  at  a  loss  myself  to  guess  why  there  was  such  a 
crowd  of  them.  Our  Prussian  twisted  his  mustache, 
and  looked  as  if  he  could  care  for  the  whole  lot,  if 
need  be.  We  left  our  horses  in  this  little  amphi 
theatre,  sheltered  from  the  wind,  which  now  blew 
very  cold,  and  began  to  ascend  the  last  part  of  the 
mountain  on  foot.  The  path  was  difficult.  It  was 
very  steep,  and  led  us  over  loose  ashes  that  let  you 
slip  back  so  far  at  each  step  that  sometimes  you 
really  wondered  if  you  were  making  any  progress  at 
all.  I  noticed  that  four  or  five  of  the  quasi-brigands 
came  along  with  us,  and  that  each  carried  a  broad 
strap  over  his  shoulder,  with  a  loop  at  the  end.  I 
asked  the  guide  what  it  meant,  and  intimated  that 
their  company  was  not  wanted.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders  as  if  to  say  that  it  was  regrettable,  but  we 
could  not  always  have  things  in  this  world  just  as  we 
wanted  them.  When  I  came  to  a  standstill,  how 
ever,  he  explained  that  the  gentlemen  of  the  leather 
strap  and  doubtful  civic  position  were  making  the 
ascent  on  their  own  responsibility  to  be  on  hand  in 
case  any  of  us  grew  tired  and  would  like  to  be  dragged 
up  the  mountain.  There  was,  indeed,  great  likeli 
hood  that  this  would  happen,  for  struggling  through 
the  loose  ash  and  cinder  played  sad  havoc  with  the 
heart  as  well  as  the  legs,  and  we  had  frequently  to 
stop  for  breath.  One  of  the  girls  quite  gave  out,  and 
was  obliged  to  hire  a  man  to  pull  her  up  the  rest  of 
the  ascent.  When  we  were  all  about  exhausted,  the 

180 


CROSS  ROADS 


Prussian  officer  and  myself  included,  the  path  merci 
fully  turned,  and  we  found  ourselves  on  solid  lava, 
with  comparatively  easy  walking.  At  this  point,  the 
unemployed  strappers  slipped  back  quietly  to  their 
den,  and  in  a  flash  I  realized  the  trick  they  had  played 
on  us.  We  might  just  as  well  have  come  the  whole 
distance  on  the  solid  lava.  These  fellows  had  de 
liberately  led  us  up  that  ash  pile  to  tire  us  all  out 
and  make  their  own  services  necessary. 

But  after  we  got  a  firm  footing,  it  was  a  great  ex 
perience,  that  climbing  Vesuvius.  At  the  crater  itself 
it  was  absolutely  terrifying.  I  have  never  seen  any 
thing  so  infernal,  never  anything  that  seemed  quite 
so  much  like  Milton's  Paradise  Lost.  The  ground 
itself  was  hot,  and  the  whole  top  of  the  mountain 
shook  with  the  oft-recurring  explosions.  Sulphur 
fumes  and  hydrochloric  acid,  and  other  foul  smelling 
gases  escaped  from  the  cracks  in  the  earth,  and  almost 
suffocated  us.  Great  clouds  of  steam  and  volleys  of 
stones  were  belched  forth  from  the  crater.  It  seemed, 
indeed,  hardly  safe  for  us  to  remain.  The  little  stones 
came  pattering  down  on  our  heads,  and  we  had  no 
assurance  that  larger  ones  might  not  follow  their  ex 
ample.  But  the  girls  were  plucky.  They  crawled 
with  me  to  the  very  edge  of  the  crater,  and  looked 
over  into  what  seemed  like  the  very  mouth  of  hell.  A 
sense  of  great  horror  seemed  to  settle  down  upon  our 
spirits  and  crush  us  flat  against  the  trembling  rocks. 
No  one  spoke.  Then  by  a  common  impulse,  we  pulled 
ourselves  back  from  the  edge  of  the  crater,  and  slowly 

181 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


made  our  way  down  the  summit.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was  pushing  against  an  irresistible  gravitation 
that  would  take  me  in  spite  of  myself  back  to  the 
crater  and  over  the  edge  into  the  abyss  itself.  I 
understood  how  a  bird  may  be  fascinated  and  fly  into 
the  open  mouth  of  the  serpent ;  or  how  a  man  through 
very  horror  may  plunge  headlong  from  a  precipice.  I 
had  the  same  sense  of  conflict  in  making  my  way  from 
the  boiling,  seething  pools  in  the  Yellowstone.  A 
cold  wind  swept  over  Vesuvius,  yet  the  perspiration 
stood  in  great  beads  on  my  forehead.  I  looked  at  the 
girls.  They  had  hold  of  hands,  and  in  their  awe 
struck  faces  I  could  see  the  same  horror  that  was 
weighing  on  my  own  spirit. 

When  we  had  descended  to  a  safe  distance,  we 
sought  a  sheltered  spot  back  of  some  great  blocks  of 
lava,  and  had  the  guide  spread  our  lunch  for  us.  We 
had  brought  along  some  eggs  to  cook  in  the  hot  ashes 
at  the  top,  but  it  had  been  so  terrifying  up  there  that 
no  one  had  thought  to  do  it.  The  air  had  given  us  all 
keen  appetites,  and  I  lamented  the  loss  of  the  eggs. 
"  It  is  all  right,  sir,"  said  the  guide,  placidly.  "  I 
had  them  cooked  before  we  left  the  hotel."  He  had 
no  conscience,  that  fellow.  But  I  fear  that  I  was 
more  shocked  by  the  unblushing  way  in  which  he  let 
us  see  his  evil-doing  than  by  the  evil-doing  itself.  We 
could  not  help  laughing  at  his  impudence,  and  though 
we  disapproved  of  him,  we  ate  the  eggs.  We  found  it 
very  pleasant,  lunching  there  in  our  nook  in  the  lava, 
and  looking  down  on  Naples  and  its  marvelous  blue 

182 


CROSS  ROADS 


bay,  with  Ischia  and  Capri  in  the  offing.  We  were 
in  high  spirits,  as  people  are  prone  to  be  after  they 
have  been  imposed  upon  and  ceased  to  resent  it ;  have 
been  in  some  danger  and  have  escaped  it ;  have  been 
alarmed  and  have  gotten  over  it.  The  descent,  too, 
was  great  sport.  As  there  was  no  longer  any  possible 
advantage  in  doing  otherwise,  the  guide  took  us  down 
in  the  quickest  and  easiest  fashion.  This  was  gen 
erally  by  way  of  the  ash  heaps,  where  each  step,  with 
the  slipping,  carried  us  down  four  or  five  feet  at  a 
time. 

We  met  some  Cook's  tourists  on  their  way  up. 
They  had  come  nearly  to  the  top  on  the  ambitious  little 
railway.  There  were  three  in  the  party,  an  English 
man  and  his  two  daughters.  The  man  was  rather 
stout,  and  was  red  in  the  face  to  the  verge  of  apo 
plexy.  Four  men  were  carrying  him  up  the  mountain, 
and  considering  the  difficulty  of  the  undertaking,  they 
seemed,  even  to  the  Prussian,  to  be  doing  it  very  well. 
But  it  failed  to  please  the  choleric  old  Englishman, 
and  he  was  cursing  them  up  and  down,  individually  and 
collectively,  in  a  way  that  was  shocking  to  hear.  The 
daughters,  sweet-faced  young  English  girls,  were  pro 
vided  only  with  one  man  apiece,  and  seemed  to  be 
getting  on  very  well.  I  looked  at  the  English  girls 
curiously  to  see  how  the  old  gentleman's  profanity 
affected  them.  They  looked  as  non-committal  as  only 
well-bred  English  girls  can,  and  one  of  them  said  to 
the  other,  —  I  suppose  it  was  Edith  to  Ethel,  —  "  It 
is  really  very  hard  on  poor  papa,  is  n't  it  ? "  And 

183 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


Ethel  said  to  Edith,  "  Dreadfully  hard,  and  how  well 
he  is  standing  it." 

This  was  not  my  own  view  of  the  case,  nor  was  it 
apparently  the  view  of  the  American  girls,  for  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  they  giggled. 

On  the  whole,  the  English  are  tolerably  conscien 
tious  sightseers,  but  they  make  rather  a  grave  business 
of  it.  The  Englishman  looks  up  and  says,  "The  Jung- 
frau,  ah,  yes,"  and  makes  a  note  that  he  has  seen  it ; 
then  goes  on  to  bag  other  game.  But  no  nation  equals 
the  French  in  its  blissful  ignoring  of  Nature.  They 
used  to  come  down  to  Geneva,  and  one  would  say  to 
the  other,  "  Mont  Blanc,  oui,  oui,"  when  they  were 
looking  straight  at  the  Juras.  The  Chatelaine  tells  me 
that  during  the  war,  both  French  and  Germans  came 
to  Geneva,  and  that  the  ordinary  German  soldiers 
knew  more  geography  than  the  French  officers.  This 
may  account  for  the  French  fondness  for  trying  to 
change  geography. 

"We  left  the  profane  Englishman  and  his  sweet-faced 
daughters  in  ashes  if  not  in  sackcloth,  and  came  on 
our  own  way  rejoicing.  The  Prussian  quite  redeemed 
himself  by  offering  to  escort  the  two  novices,  and 
allow  the  one  good  horsewoman  and  me  to  have  a 
splendid  ride  back  to  the  Pension  Suisse.  Late  in  the 
afternoon  they  all  went  up  to  Naples.  I  remained  at 
the  pension,  however,  in  the  joint  keeping  of  the  senior 
and  junior  proprietors,  as  I  wanted  to  spend  the  next 
morning  in  ancient  Pompeii. 

It  had  been  a  day  full  of  unusual  experiences,  but 
184 


CROSS  ROADS 


I  was  still  to  meet  the  greatest  one.  I  had  been  over 
to  the  station  to  see  the  American  girls  off  to  Naples, 
and  as  it  was  not  quite  time  for  the  table  d'hote,  I 
strolled  into  the  bureau  of  the  hotel  and  glanced  over 
the  register.  It  is  a  thing  I  hardly  ever  do,  for  a 
hotel  register  is  a  collection  of  hieroglyphics  that  I 
dislike  to  think  of  as  human.  Why  I  should  have 
done  it  at  that  shabby  little  place,  I  am  still  at  a  loss 
to  know. 

Three  days  before  my  own  coming,  I  found  an 
entry  that  made  my  heart  stand  still  for  a  moment 
and  then  thump  so  riotously  that  I  was  like  to  suffo 
cate.  It  read,  "  Mrs.  LeRoy  Ravenel  and  maid,  New 
Orleans,"  and  then  on  the  next  line,  "  Margaret  Rav 
enel,  New  Orleans." 

I  looked  at  the  names  like  one  in  a  dream.  I  rubbed 
my  eyes  and  looked  again.  It  seemed  utterly  impos 
sible.  I  went  out  into  the  darkness  and  walked  up 
and  down  the  dusty  road.  Then  I  went  back  to  the 
bureau  and  regarded  the  two  names  long  and  intently. 
The  writing  was  strong  and  clear.  It  was  a  woman's 
hand,  evidently  a  gentlewoman's.  It  was  too  bold  and 
firm  to  be  Mrs.  Ravenel' s.  It  must  be  Margaret's. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  bureau.  I  stooped  over  and 
kissed  the  shabby  page.  I  examined  the  cabalistic 
characters  that  surrounded  the  names  and  made  out 
that  the  Ravenels  had  left  on  the  following  day. 

The  head  waiter  came  and  fetched  me  to  the  dining- 
room.  The  table  d'hote  was  already  in  progress.  The 
courses  came  and  went.  I  suppose  I  tasted  them.  I 

185 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


hardly  know.  I  was  not  at  Pompeii.  I  was  back  at 
New  Orleans.  I  saw  Margaret,  saw  her  golden  chest 
nut  hair  and  great  brown  eyes,  saw  the  blue  gown 
made  in  the  sailor  fashion,  smelled  the  sweet  curling 
hair.  And  now  Margaret  was  a  woman.  She  was 
the  woman  whom  I  had  been  loving  all  these  years  as 
my  ideal  woman.  She  had  made  all  other  women  im 
possible.  A  sense  of  utter  loneliness  came  over  me,  a 
tremendous  longing  that  seemed  to  sum  up  in  one 
moment  the  unsatisfied  heart  needs  of  all  the  years. 
It  was  a  pain  such  as  I  had  never  felt  before.  I  bent 
before  it  like  a  reed  before  the  wind,  I  who  had  always 
been  so  confident,  so  debonnaire,  so  happy,  who  had  met 
the  two  great  sorrows  of  my  life,  and  in  the  end  had 
robbed  them  of  victory  in  robbing  them  of  bitterness. 
The  pain  was  intolerable.  I  left  the  table  suddenly. 
I  think  it  must  have  been  before  the  dessert,  for  the 
senior  proprietor  came  rushing  after  me  to  ask  if 
Monsieur  were  ill  or  if  the  food  did  not  suit  him.  I 
replied  that  I  was  not  ill,  and  that  doubtless  the  food 
was  excellent,  but  that  for  the  moment  I  preferred  the 
fresh  air. 

I  walked  rapidly  from  the  hotel,  past  the  depend- 
ance,  and  on  into  the  country,  how  long  or  how  great 
a  distance  I  hardly  know.  Finally  I  realized  that  I 
had  quite  tired  myself  out.  I  sat  down  by  the  road 
side.  The  moon  was  shining  brightly.  It  was  a  very 
lonely  place.  It  did  not  matter.  If  any  one  wanted 
my  thousand  francs,  he  might  have  them. 

I  had  no  right  to  think  that  Margaret  would  care 
186 


CEOSS   ROADS 


for  me.  We  had  been  mere  child  lovers,  and  even 
then  she  had  declared  that  she  would  never  marry  me. 
Perhaps  she  was  already  promised  to  some  one  else. 
Doubtless  she  had  plenty  of  lovers.  She  could  surely 
pick  and  choose. 

Then  came  the  thought,  which  cut  me  like  a  veri 
table  knife,  would  I  prefer  her  to  all  other  women, 
even  to  that  ideal  woman  I  had  created  and  dowered 
with  her  name  ?  It  was  almost  as  if  I  had  a  wife.  I 
had  been  living  with  her  day  and  night  for  ten  years. 
It  was  a  transcendental  passion,  as  strong  and  pure  as 
flame  itself.  Could  the  living  Margaret  rival  this 
comrade  of  the  intellect  ?  Could  she  be  her  peer  ? 
Could  she  take  her  place  ?  Could  she  permanently 
supplant  her?  These  were  the  questions  that  sent 
their  sharp  blades  into  the  innermost  recesses  of  my 
heart. 

What  if  Margaret  were  narrow,  like  her  mother, 
conventional  in  her  politics  and  her  religion,  sucking 
the  poison  of  an  embittered  past.  She  had  lived  in  a 
provincial  city.  She  had  been  a  dutiful  daughter, 
and  doubtless  she  had  breathed  an  atmosphere  of 
blight  and  prejudice.  There  had  been  no  one  to  save 
her  from  her  mother,  unless  it  were  Peyton.  Peyton ! 
Why  had  she  not  married  Peyton  ?  He  was  the  only 
one  worthy  of  her  ;  more  worthy,  heaven  knows,  than 
I  am.  But  evidently  she  had  not  married  him.  The 
shabby  register  of  the  Pension  Suisse  bore  witness  to 
that.  Could  the  boy  be  dead?  Perhaps  Margaret 
had  not  appreciated  him.  Or,  perhaps,  —  but  that 

187 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


could  not  be  possible,  —  perhaps  she  had  kept  me  in 
her  heart,  and  it  had  made  another  love  impossible. 
Could  it  be  that  she,  too,  had  created  an  ideal,  and 
was  loving  that?  Suppose  I  had  come  three  days 
earlier,  and  we  had  met !  Suppose  we  had  been  dis 
appointed,  the  one  in  the  other,  and  had  had  to  re 
name  our  mended  idols,  what  a  ghastly  thing  it  would 
have  been.  If  Margaret  were  narrow  and  conven 
tional  and  aristocratic,  her  ideal  man  would  be  the 
same.  She  would  not  comprehend  me.  I  would 
shock  her.  I,  a  liberal,  a  radical,  a  lover  of  Emerson 
and  Morris,  a  hot  democrat,  a  believer  in  the  new 
gospel.  Margaret  had  been  an  imperious  child,  a 
queen  among  us  children,  but  afterwards  what  had 
happened  ?  It  was  impossible  to  say.  One  may  not 
breathe  malaria  and  not  be  poisoned  by  it.  It  was 
better,  perhaps,  that  we  had  not  met.  I  could  not 
shatter  my  idol.  I  could  not  live  without  it.  And 
yet  —  after  all,  how  I  longed  to  see  Margaret,  even 
on  the  narrow  chance  that  the  living  Margaret  and 
the  ideal  Margaret  might  not  be  foreign  to  each 
other.  . 

The  moon  was  still  shining  brightly,  and  all  around 
me  was  the  silence  of  the  tomb.  I  felt  a  sudden  chill 
and  realized  that  I  ought  not  to  be  sitting  there  so 
late  into  the  night.  I  jumped  up,  and  to  warm  my 
self,  ran  all  the  way  back  to  the  pension.  When  I 
came  in,  flushed  and  out  of  breath,  I  think  I  settled 
all  doubts  in  the  mind  of  the  senior  proprietor,  —  he 
put  me  down  as  crazy.  My  run  sent  the  blood  tin- 

188 


CROSS   ROADS 


gling  through  my  veins.  In  spite  of  all  my  doubts 
and  questionings,  a  great  joy  was  singing  in  my  heart. 
It  was  the  love  that  I  had  nursed  so  long,  but  until 
now  had  never  felt.  I  do  not  blame  the  senior  pro 
prietor  for  thinking  me  quite  crazy.  He  could  not 
know  what  had  happened.  When  a  man  stalks  up 
and  down  a  small  salon  until  late  into  the  night,  and 
laughs  softly  to  himself  from  time  to  time,  it  is  cer 
tain  that  something  has  happened,  and  the  senior  pro 
prietor,  not  being  a  man  of  sentiment,  thought  I  had 
lost  my  wits  rather  than  my  heart.  I  think  the  son, 
with  his  white  teeth  and  cheery  laugh,  might  have 
understood. 

I  had  to  look  once  more  at  the  register  before  I 
went  to  bed.  "  Mrs.  LeRoy  Ravenel  and  maid  "  — 
that  rather  bothered  me.  They  had  been  simple  folk 
in  New  Orleans.  The  maid  seemed  to  introduce  a 
complication,  and  bespeak  a  less  simple  mode  of  life. 
But  when  my  eye  passed  on  to  the  next  line,  —  "  Mar 
garet  Ravenel,  New  Orleans," — I  forgot  everything 
else.  Margaret  was  still  alive.  She  was  still  Mar 
garet  Ravenel,  and  I,  John  Percyfield,  was  going  to 
find  her  and  to  marry  her. 

This  brought  me  back  to  the  practical  world,  and  I 
began,  curiously  for  the  first  time,  to  wonder  where 
the  Ravenels  had  gone  and  how  I  was  to  find  them. 
I  questioned  the  senior  proprietor.  It  was  true  that  the 
Ravenels  had  stopped  but  one  night.  The  young  lady 
and  her  mother  had  visited  the  ruins.  No,  they  had 
not  gone  up  Vesuvius ;  Madame  would  scarcely  have 

189 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


been  able.  They  had  taken  the  train  going  north. 
This  was  all  that  I  could  get  out  of  the  senior  pro 
prietor,  and,  poor  man,  it  was  probably  all  that  he 
knew.  But  acting  on  his  theory  in  regard  to  myself, 
he  gave  random  answers,  such  apparently  as  he  thought 
would  quiet  me,  and  finally  intimated  that  if  Mon 
sieur  would  only  go  to  bed,  doubtless  in  the  morning 
everything  could  be  happily  arranged.  I  devoutly 
hoped  so. 

I  had  to  take  a  good  look  at  the  senior  proprietor, 
This  man  had  seen  Margaret,  had  seen  her  probably 
several  times,  seen  her  at  her  meals,  in  the  salon, 
walking  with  her  mother.  But  then  it  occurred  to  me 
that  what  he  saw  differed  from  what  I  should  have 
seen  quite  as  much  as  Ida's  and  Sophie's  view  of  the 
sunset  differed  from  Mademoiselle  Werner's. 

The  next  morning  I  awoke  without  any  plans.  1 
had  a  wild  desire  to  take  the  first  northern-bound  train 
that  came  along,  but  I  did  not  yield  to  it,  for  it  seemed 
altogether  foolish  to  start  out  to  seek  the  Ravenels, 
without  at  least  some  clue  to  their  destination.  It 
occurred  to  me  as  a  humorous  possibility  that  if  I 
stayed  long  enough  at  the  Pension  Suisse  to  reestab 
lish  my  reputation  for  sanity,  I  might  get  something 
more  out  of  the  senior  proprietor,  but  that  plan  I  also 
gave  up.  Finally  I  carried  out  my  original  purpose 
of  visiting  ancient  Pompeii,  but  more,  I  think,  because 
Margaret  had  been  there  only  three  days  before  and 
it  was  a  comfort  even  to  go  over  the  same  ground. 
When  I  came  to  Pompeii,  I  had  expected  to  be  tre- 

190 


CROSS   ROADS 


mendously  interested.  I  had  read  the  "  Last  Days," 
and  had  brought  my  copy  along,  so  as  to  go  over  parts 
of  it  on  the  very  spot.  Then  the  marvelous  things 
from  Pompeii  in  the  museum  at  Naples  had  added  to 
my  enthusiasm.  But  the  shabby  register  of  the  Pen 
sion  Suisse  had  undone  it  all.  I  wandered  through 
the  ancient  Pompeian  streets  and  among  the  roofless 
houses.  I  sat  in  the  home  of  Glaucus.  I  let  the  guide 
spin  his  interminable  tale  without  interruption  or  com* 
ment.  It  was  an  unreal  world  to  me,  and  I,  a  rosy- 
cheeked  young  man,  and  apparently  of  solid  limb,  was 
the  veriest  phantom  of  it  all.  Every  place  I  turned, 
it  was  Margaret,  and  then  again  Margaret,  and  still 
once  more  Margaret. 

There  was  only  one  thing  that  did  fetch  me  out 
of  my  dream  and  hold  me  for  some  moments.  It 
was  a  simple  little  thing  —  the  deep  ruts  that  had 
been  worn  in  the  lava  paving-stones  of  the  street  by 
the  passing  of  innumerable  carts.  It  touched  me  very 
much,  this  sign  of  a  forgotten  human  activity.  I  do 
not  know  why  it  is,  but  a  worn  stone  always  appeals 
to  me  in  this  way.  Even  the  limestone  of  our  beauti 
ful  Chester  Valley,  worn  by  the  rain  into  rounded 
curves  and  creases,  has  this  effect  upon  me,  and  when 
the  wearing  has  been  by  human  uses  and  by  human 
feet,  I  am  conscious  of  a  tenderness  and  an  emotion 
that  I  cannot  well  explain.  It  was  so  at  the  Chateau. 
The  stone  steps  in  the  passageway  have  been  worn 
down  several  inches  by  their  centuries  of  human  usage. 
Duke  and  peasant  have  passed,  and  repassed ;  Mar- 

191 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


gherita  and  her  little  golden-haired  son  have  been 
there.  It  makes  the  bygone  days  more  real,  and  en 
dears  the  old  stones  to  me  tremendously.  Those  deep 
ruts  at  Pompeii  brought  back  the  old,  human,  Roman  life 
more  vividly  even  than  Bulwer  had  done  it.  And  you 
may  remember  those  curious  old  statues  on  the  bridge 
of  Karl  Theodor,  the  one  that  spans  the  Neckar  at 
Heidelberg.  The  rain  of  centuries  has  made  furrows 
on  their  upturned  faces,  as  if  the  poor  pink  sandstone 
had  been  worn  with  much  weeping.  The  effect  is 
almost  grotesque,  but  instead  of  amusing  me,  it  fills 
me  with  a  strange  pity. 

In  the  afternoon  I  went  up  to  Naples.  On  the 
train  I  found  myself  traveling  in  such  circles  in  my 
thought  that  finally  I  had  to  force  myself  to  think 
about  other  things.  I  amused  myself  by  counting  up 
the  number  of  persons  I  had  had  to  fee  during  my 
two  days  at  Pompeii.  It  amounted  by  actual  count 
to  fifteen,  and  as  this  was  exactly  the  number  of  por 
ters  at  the  station  on  my  arrival,  they  had  quite  come 
even  with  me  for  not  having  more  carryable  and  divi 
sible  luggage.  I  did  not  mind  the  money,  for  the 
total  amount  was  small,  but  it  seemed  sad  that  in  a 
country  which  had  once  been  mistress  of  the  world, 
such  a  large  number  of  the  people  should  now  be  re 
duced  to  this  detestable  form  of  beggary.  Perhaps  it 
is  because  she  proved  such  a  poor  mistress,  this  im 
perial  Rome.  Although  a  lover,  I  was  still  a  demo 
crat. 

At  Naples  I  went  to  the  Hotel  Riviera,  which  is, 
192 


CROSS   ROADS 


as  you  may  remember,  directly  on  the  Bay  and  near 
the  Aquarium.  This  would  be  the  natural  position 
for  a  hotel  with  such  a  name,  but  it  is  never  safe  to 
take  it  for  granted  that  name  and  location  go  together. 
At  Antwerp,  I  once  stopped  at  the  Hotel  du  Grand 
Miroir,  and  when  I  asked  the  waiter  where  their  big 
mirror  was  kept,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  if  it 
were  a  very  silly  question,  and  said,  "  Monsieur,  it  is 
but  a  name." 

The  Hotel  Riviera  is  an  old  place,  and  not  over 
clean,  but  the  situation  is  good,  and  for  some  reason 
or  other,  I  always  prefer  to  go  there.  I  particularly 
like  the  old  dining-room.  There  are  many  handsomer 
ones  in  Naples,  but  few  of  better  proportions.  It 
opens,  too,  on  a  delightful  old  garden,  and  indoors  the 
sylvan  effect  is  continued  by  the  old-fashioned  frescoes. 
That  evening,  the  room  was  filled  with  people.  As  I 
was  alone,  I  was  given  a  place  at  the  long  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  The  tables  were  decorated  with 
fruits  and  flowers,  the  lights  sparkled,  the  waiters  flew 
about,  ministering  to  our  wants  like  modern  angels  of 
mercy,  with  wings  in  their  feet  instead  of  on  their 
shoulders.  This  was  perhaps  fortunate,  as  the  wants 
of  most  of  the  guests  appeared  to  be  vinous  and  earthly. 
The  ladies  had  on  bright  evening  gowns,  and  most  of 
the  men  were  in  their  dress  suits.  It  was  altogether 
a  gay  and  pretty  scene,  and  I  much  wanted  some  one 
to  talk  to.  I  should  even  have  been  glad  to  have  my 
aunt  Percyfield.  The  people  opposite  were  speaking 
French,  but  at  a  speed  which  completely  left  me  out. 

193 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


I  did  hear  one  of  the  women  say  that  there  were  two 
kinds  of  trees  in  Italy,  and  one  of  them,  the  cypress, 
reminded  her  of  a  closed  umbrella,  while  the  other, 
the  stone  pine,  was  the  umbrella  opened.  This  seemed 
to  her  companions  rather  a  clever  characterization,  for 
the  remark  was  applauded  and  passed  on.  The  peo 
ple  to  my  right  were  speaking  more  slowly,  but  in  some 
altogether  unknown  tongue,  so  I  put  them  down  as 
Russians. 

The  lady  at  my  left,  however,  was  alone  and  spoke 
English,  so  I  devoted  myself  to  her.  She  was  a  woman 
almost  sixty  years  old,  with  singularly  placid  face  and 
movements.  Her  hair  was  dark  gray.  It  was  parted 
in  the  middle,  and  was  drawn  down  over  her  ears  in 
delightful,  old-fashioned  curves.  She  wore  a  black 
silk  gown,  with  rather  full  Garibaldi  sleeves,  and 
about  her  neck  there  was  the  thinnest  cambric  collar, 
edged  with  a  dainty  hem.  Similar  cuffs  folded  back 
over  the  edge  of  her  sleeves.  She  was  a  picturesque 
old  gentlewoman,  and  very  moderate,  too,  in  the  num 
ber  of  rings  she  wore  on  her  fingers.  I  half  guessed 
that  she  was  an  American,  for  European  ladies  are 
generally  not  moderate  in  this  respect.  I  suppose  the 
rings  come  to  them  as  legacies,  and  have  to  be  worn 
to  show  how  many  less  estimable  persons  they  have 
survived,  —  also  to  get  the  good  of  the  legacies.  But 
if  they  only  knew  what  antiquity  it  suggests,  they 
would  give  over  the  habit. 

Furthermore,  this  gentlewoman  to  my  left  had  no 
thing  about  her  that  could  by  any  stretch  of  the 

194 


CROSS   ROADS 


imagination  be  called  modish,  and  that  pleased  me 
greatly. 

It  is  one  of  the  minor  ambitions  of  my  own  life  to 
be  always  out  of  the  fashion,  and  I  have  Charlotte's 
word  for  it  that  I  succeed.  I  am  a  tall  and  slender 
man ;  an  example,  I  insist,  of  the  coming  type ;  and 
when  I  go  to  the  tailor's,  he  says  with  the  air  of  one 
initiated  into  holy  mysteries,  "  We  're  making  the 
trousers  rather  tight,  this  year,  sir ; "  and  I  make 
answer,  "  Nevertheless,  my  good  man,  I  wish  to  cast  a 
shadow.  You  will  make  the  trousers  as  you  always 
do,  twenty-two  inches  at  the  knees,  and  twenty  inches 
over  the  gaiters."  He  groans,  but  he  does  it,  for 
while  he  disapproves  of  my  taste,  he  likes  the  prompt 
ness  with  which  I  pay  my  bills.  I  believe  that  some 
of  the  gentlemen  who  are  so  particular  about  having 
their  trousers  tight  are  not  as  prompt,  or,  as  Char 
lotte,  that  incorrigible  punster,  puts  it,  they  are  more 
fussy  over  their  stripes  than  their  checks.  When 
we  come  to  the  coat,  the  tailor  says  coaxingly,  "  You  'd 
like  to  have  your  coat  fit  you  this  time,  would  n't  you, 
sir  ?  "  and  I  answer  cheerily,  "  Not  a  bit  of  it,  —  a 
bag,  a  sack,  something  I  can  jump  into  from  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  without  taking  particular  aim, 
either."  Again  he  groans  and  does  it. 

This  unfashionable  gentlewoman  and  I  therefore 
made  a  proper  pair.  She  had  a  nice  voice,  too,  and 
altogether,  we  got  on  famously. 

I  thought  it  might  amuse  her  to  hear  about  my 
night's  adventure  at  the  dependance,  and  so  I  told  it 

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JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


to  her  as  picturesquely  as  I  could.  She  was  much 
interested,  and  I  could  not  have  asked  for  a  better 
listener.  When  I  got  through,  she  looked  up  with  a 
droll  smile  and  said :  "I  thought  I  recognized  your 
voice.  I  am  the  American  lady." 

Then  she  went  on  to  tell  me  that  she  had  spent  a 
week  at  that  crazy  old  dependance,  and  that  she  had 
greatly  enjoyed  the  quiet,  for  she  had  been  traveling 
pretty  steadily.  She  had  come  up  to  Naples  only  the 
morning  before.  When  I  asked  her  if  she  were  not 
afraid  to  stop  in  such  a  lonely  place,  she  answered 
quietly,  — 

"  No,  I  was  not  afraid.  For  the  past  twenty  years 
—  that  is,  since  I  got  control  of  my  life  —  I  have 
not  known  what  fear  is.  I  do  not  expect  evil,  and 
it  does  not  come." 

In  a  younger  person  this  might  have  sounded  like 
bravado.  In  her  it  was  charming. 

The  American  lady  had  been  at  the  Pension  Suisse 
a  week,  —  then  she  must  have  seen  Margaret  ?  I  fell 
to  questioning  her.  Yes,  she  remembered  the  Rave- 
nels.  Mrs.  Ravenel  seemed  rather  feeble  and  broken 
in  health,  but  the  daughter  was  splendid,  a  regular 
beauty.  Did  I  know  them?  Yes?  Then  surely  I 
must  admire  Miss  Ravenel.  One  could  not  help  it. 
She  had  hoped  that  the  Ravenels  might  remain  for 
several  days,  but  they  had  only  stopped  for  the  one 
night.  No,  she  did  not  know  where  they  were  going, 
but  she  thought  to  the  north,  —  to  Lombardy,  or  it 
might  have  been  to  Switzerland.  She  did  not  know ; 

196 


CROSS   ROADS 


she  had  seen  them  for  such  a  short  time.  But  with 
Miss  Ravenel  it  was  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight.  She 
would  go  some  distance  to  see  her  again.  Much  else 
that  was  very  pleasant  to  me  to  hear,  this  American 
lady  said,  and  you  may  be  quite  sure  that  I  found  her 
a  most  delightful  companion.  I  did  not  tell  her  how 
anxious  I  was  to  find  the  Ravenels,  but  she  easily 
guessed  it.  When  we  separated,  at  the  end  of  the  long 
table  d'hote,  she  said  to  me :  — 

"  If  I  were  you,  my  friend,  —  you  will  let  me  call 
you  that,  since  we  have  gone  through  such  terrible 
adventures  together,  and  since  we  both  admire  the 
same  young  lady,  —  if  I  were  you,  I  would  ask  at  the 
Poste  Restante,  and  at  the  principal  bankers,  and  at 
some  of  the  more  probable  hotels.  Europe  is  a  big 
place,  but,  after  all,  the  routes  of  travel  are  well 
marked  out,  and  people  are  pretty  sure  to  meet  — 
when  they  want  to." 

I  thanked  her  heartily.  The  next  day  I  followed 
her  advice.  I  inquired  at  the  Poste  Restante,  at  all 
the  principal  bankers,  and  at  a  weary  lot  of  hotels  and 
pensions,  but  I  could  not  find  any  present  trace  of  the 
Ravenels.  They  had  been  at  the  Hotel  Bristol  for 
several  days,  but  it  had  been  some  time  before,  on 
their  way  to  Pompeii,  and  they  had  evidently  gone 
directly  north  on  their  return,  without  making  a  sec 
ond  stop  in  Naples.  I  was  sadly  disappointed,  and  it 
was  while  I  was  in  this  discouraged  mood  that  I  did 
something  quite  unworthy  of  myself.  I  went  back  to 
Pompeii  on  the  following  day  to  see  if  there  had  been 

197 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


any  one  in  attendance  on  the  Ravenels  who  might 
possibly  pass  as  Margaret's  lover.  At  the  Bristol, 
their  names  on  the  register  had  been  followed  by  the 
name  of  a  Mr.  George  H.  Townshend,  of  Baltimore. 
It  was  a  splendid,  manly  signature,  and  I  could  easily 
associate  it  with  Margaret's.  By  the  time  I  got  to 
Pompeii,  however,  I  was  thoroughly  ashamed  of  myself 
to  be  spying  on  my  lady's  movements  in  this  detec 
tive  fashion.  It  was  more  worthy  of  a  two-baths-a- 
week  man  than  of  a  Percyfield.  I  turned  around  and 
went  directly  back  to  Naples  on  the  next  train,  without 
going  to  the  Pension  Suisse,  but  I  have  always  been 
ashamed  that  I  came  so  near  to  doing  a  mean  thing. 

The  journey  lost  me  the  express  to  Rome,  and  so  I 
spent  another  night  at  the  Hotel  Riviera.  The  Amer 
ican  lady  was  still  there.  She  had  had  a  note  from 
Margaret,  considerably  delayed  by  having  gone  first 
to  Pompeii.  She  said  to  me  at  once,  however,  that  it 
told  nothing  about  their  movements,  not  even  where 
they  were  at  the  time,  for  it  had  been  mailed  on 
the  train.  She  added  modestly  that  it  was  merely 
to  thank  her  for  a  trifling  courtesy  at  Pompeii.  I 
must  have  looked  my  disappointment,  for  the  lady 
produced  the  note  itself,  and  by  way  of  comfort 
gave  it  to  me.  Apparently  the  best  of  women  make 
these  little  slips.  I  could  not  well  decline,  for  it 
would  have  been  too  outspoken  a  rebuke  to  my  kind, 
unfashionable  gentlewoman.  I  put  the  note  in  my 
pocket  without  looking  at  it,  for  I  had  not  the  slight 
est  right  to  read  it,  and  when  I  got  to  Rome,  and 

198 


CROSS  ROADS 


established  once  more  on  Monte  Pincio  at  the  Gia- 
nelli,  I  carefully  burned  the  note.  I  did  look  at  the 
signature  just  once,  and  I  did  kiss  it,  but  that  was  all. 
I  watched  the  flames  devouring  the  bit  of  paper  so 
fresh  from  Margaret's  hand,  and  I  felt  a  certain  pang 
when  it  was  quite  reduced  to  ashes.  But  it  was  what 
my  grandfather  Percyfield  would  have  done. 

I  had  no  more  success  at  Rome  than  at  Naples.  I 
found  that  the  Ravenels  had  been  at  the  banker's,  and 
that  they  had  been  for  a  short  time  at  the  Hotel 
d'  Italie,  but  it  had  been  some  weeks  earlier,  and  evi 
dently  before  their  trip  to  Pompeii.  I  had  to  con 
clude  that  they  had  gone  northward  on  one  of  the 
through  trains  de  luxe,  or  else  were  making  their  way 
up  the  Adriatic  side.  Yet  I  was  not  at  this  time  at 
all  discouraged.  I  seldom  thought  of  Mr.  Townshend, 
of  Baltimore,  and  his  good  handwriting ;  and  when  I 
did,  I  told  myself  that  it  was  one  chance  in  a  thousand 
if  the  Ravenels  even  knew  him.  There  was  that  joy 
ous  something  that  kept  singing  in  my  heart,  and 
telling  me  that  I  should  find  Margaret.  I  grant  that 
it  was  an  unreasonable  faith,  but  it  kept  me  buoyant 
and  happy  and  well. 

I  spent  the  rest  of  the  winter  and  the  early  spring 
in  Italy,  chiefly  in  the  north,  looking  at  many  things 
and  all  the  time  for  one  thing. 

I  lingered  especially  at  Florence,  for  I  felt  sure  that 
it  was  a  place  to  attract  Margaret.  It  has  always 
been  one  of  my  own  favorite  cities.  It  seems  to  me 
that  the  very  landscape  there  is  full  of  intellect  and 

199 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


emotion.  Nature  herself  seems  controlled  and  disci 
plined  and  temperate,  a  counterpart  to  the  best  and 
loveliest  in  Florentine  art.  I  was  there  when  the  al 
mond  blossoms  were  out  in  all  their  pink  beauty,  when 
the  olive  trees  were  putting  out  their  tender  leaves  of 
silver-green,  when  the  flower  booths  on  the  Lungarno 
and  up  on  the  Promenade  Michelangelo  were  bowers 
of  sweet-smelling  bloom.  I  bought  great  bunches  of 
the  lovely  Italian  flowers  of  the  spring,  bought  them 
for  Margaret,  and  bent  over  them  many  times  in  my 
own  apartment,  but  never  sadly,  always  joyfully  and 
hopefully. 

I  went  often  to  the  Uffizi  and  the  Pitti.  I  stood 
for  long  moments  before  the  picture  of  my  mother,  the 
one  Murillo  painted  before  ever  she  was  born.  Though 
the  tears  filled  my  eyes,  I  could  look  at  it  with  loving 
pleasure,  for  the  bitterness  had  gone  out  of  my  sorrow 
and  I  thanked  God  that  love  is  immortal.  Then  I 
would  go  often  into  the  octagonal  chamber  and  hang 
over  Guercino's  picture  of  my  dear  little  Peyton,  a 
creature  so  superior  to  my  poor  self  that  it  seemed  to 
me  as  if  Margaret  must  love  him  instead  of  me.  And 
I  wished  for  that  more  famous  picture  at  the  Louvre, 
which  is  the  picture  of  Margaret's  self.  But  really  I 
had  no  need  for  it.  I  could  see  the  oval  of  Marga 
ret's  dear  face  and  the  mass  of  chestnut  curls,  and  the 
large  brown  eyes,  and  the  blue  gown  made  in  the 
sailor  fashion,  quite  as  vividly  as  if  the  child  had  been 
before  me.  And  in  my  heart  was  that  happy  some 
thing,  a  sacred  presence  singing  to  me  night  and  day. 

200 


CKOSS  ROADS 


But  the  weeks  passed,  and  I  did  not  find  the 
Ravenels. 

I  wrote  incidentally  to  Charlotte  that  I  had  crossed 
the  Ravenels'  track  at  Pompeii,  and  told  her  what  the 
American  lady  had  said  about  Margaret.  But  I  gave 
it  merely  as  a  news  item,  without  any  comment.  Some 
times  I  feel  a  bit  sorry  for  Charlotte  that  she  does  not 
know  my  secret.  She  has  Frederic,  to  be  sure,  and 
even  a  very  small  son  whom  I  have  not  yet  seen,  but 
it  is  different. 

I  even  felt  sorry  for  the  people  I  met  in  the  hotels 
and  pensions.  It  seemed  to  me  that  they  busied  them 
selves  with  very  unimportant  matters,  and  when  they 
did  turn  to  love,  they  spoke  lightly,  and  I  either  changed 
the  subject  or  left  the  room.  When  one  really  loves, 
when  the  heart  is  stirred  to  its  very  depths,  one  is 
silent ;  or  if  one  speaks,  it  is  reverently,  as  one  speaks 
of  God,  or  of  the  Madonna.  It  is  a  consecration. 

It  is  the  same,  I  think,  with  an  artist.  He  must 
work  in  secret.  He  cannot  speak  of  what  he  means 
to  do,  —  even  of  what  he  is  doing.  He  can  only  shyly 
show  the  finished  work.  These  inner  reserves  are 
necessary,  a  part  of  the  reverence  and  sacredness  of 
life.  To  publish  them,  even  to  speak  of  them,  is  a 
desecration,  and  heaven  pity  the  man  or  woman  who 
has  not  these  holy  secrets.  Their  lives  are  threadbare 
and  faded  like  doubtful  beauties  under  a  Welsbach 
burner. 

Charlotte  is  a  good  sister,  the  very  best  of  sisters, 
and  she  understands  and  respects  these  moods.  When 

201 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


I  work  at  home  and  cannot  speak  of  my  work  -—  we 
have  invented  a  special  term  for  it,  —  we  call  it  "  play 
ing  the  violin."  When  Charlotte  asks  me  what  I 
have  been  doing,  and  I  answer  that  I  have  been  play 
ing  the  violin,  she  understands  and  asks  no  more  ques 
tions. 

Early  in  May  I  went  back  to  the  Chateau,  and  I 
journeyed  towards  it  as  one  does  who  is  going  home. 


202 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SUNSHINE 

IT  is  spring  at  the  Chateau.  The  apple  orchard 
under  the  south  tower  is  one  mass  of  pink  and  white 
bloom.  As  I  stand  at  the  open  window  of  a  morning, 
the  perfume  comes  up  to  me  in  great  draughts  of 
sweetness.  The  luxuriant  wistaria  over  the  courtyard 
door  has  put  out  its  fan-like  plumes  of  light  green 
leaf ;  the  rich  clusters  of  pale  purple  flowers  stand  out 
in  gay  relief  against  the  sombre  stone  walls.  The 
Chatelaine  is  very  fond  of  her  wistaria,  and  when  I 
tell  her  that  it  comes  from  Philadelphia,  and  is  named 
after  our  good  old  Dr.  Caspar  Wistar,  I  think  she 
has  an  added  respect  for  our  intelligence  and  a3sthetics. 
The  early  roses  are  out  in  full  force,  too,  and  the 
rough  wall  of  the  east  wing  is  covered  with  a  trellis 
full  of  their  cheery  yellow  blossoms.  The  Virginia 
creeper  has  changed  great  sweeps  of  our  dull  gray 
walls  to  a  tender  green.  On  all  sides  there  are  signs 
of  returning  life.  The  tall  and  stately  poplars  have 
bedecked  themselves  once  more,  and  even  the  large 
fir  tree  that  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  courtyard  has 
its  tips  of  renewed  green. 

The  snow  still  lingers  on  the  top  of  the  Juras.  They 
stand  out  white  and  pure  against  the  intense  blue  of 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


the  sky.  Lower  down,  the  trees  are  showing  that 
tender,  greenish  gray  that  I  love  so  well  to  see  spread 
ing  over  our  own  beautiful  Chester  Valley  in  early 
May.  The  Lake  has  lost  the  sombre  cast  of  winter, 
the  cold,  muddy  gray  that  sends  such  a  chill  to  the 
heart.  It  is  once  more  alive  and  warm  with  color, 
the  deepest  blue,  with  here  and  there  a  patch  of  exqui 
site  turquoise.  On  all  sides  one  sees  that  marvelous 
renewal  of  life  which  makes  the  spring  the  best  season 
of  all  the  year. 

The  spirit  of  the  spring  penetrates  to  the  innermost 
corners  of  the  Chateau,  and  reaches  even  the  apathetic 
Scotland.  She  gives  up  her  letter-writing  and  her 
novels,  and  is  as  keen  to  be  abroad  as  any  of  us.  She 
has  taken  to  rowing  on  the  lake,  with  England  and 
Ireland  for  company,  when  they  will  intrust  them 
selves  to  her  somewhat  erratic  boatmanship.  She  even 
rides  Coco,  much  to  my  approval  and  somewhat  to  my 
inconvenience.  She  is  quite  like  another  person,  and 
much  more  charming  than  I  had  supposed  possible.  I 
cannot  imagine  what  it  all  means ;  I  fancy  there  is 
something  more  than  the  spring  back  of  it.  I  expect 
any  day  to  see  that  barelegged  laird  turn  up. 

The  infection  has  spread  to  all  of  the  United  King 
dom.  Ireland  has  begun  taking  lessons  on  the  wheel, 
and  is  astonishing  everybody  by  becoming  a  fairly 
good  rider.  England  will  have  none  of  it,  and  is 
openly  solicitous  about  Ireland's  undertaking  such 
novelties.  England  has  her  own  enthusiasms,  how 
ever.  She  has  gone  so  far  as  to  buy  a  tennis  racket, 

204 


SUNSHINE 


—  which  she  never  uses.  She  has  also  taken  to  walk 
ing,  and  goes  as  much  as  a  couple  of  miles  at  a  time. 
I  have  offered  to  wheel  around  the  lake  with  Ireland, 
and  to  climb  the  Dole  with  England,  but  neither  offer 
has  as  yet  been  accepted. 

The  Chatelaine  is  quite  the  busiest  of  all  the  ladies. 
She  goes  out  on  her  wheel  whenever  I  do.  She  super 
intends  the  planting  of  the  garden  and  the  trimming 
of  the  vines.  She  is  constantly  going  and  coming  be 
tween  the  kind  Madame  du  Chene's  and  the  Chateau, 
carrying  seeds  or  plants  or  cuttings.  It  is  good  to 
see  her,  our  dear  Chatelaine,  her  cheeks  aflame,  her 
eyes  sparkling,  every  movement  instinct  with  life  and 
good  will. 

I  have  fallen  very  easily  into  my  old  occupations, 
but  everything  goes  at  quickened  speed.  I  write 
double  stints  and  wheel  double  courses.  I  am  up 
with  the  earliest,  and  midnight  finds  me  still  alert.  I 
have  resumed  my  French  reading  with  the  Chatelaine, 
and  my  music  with  Madame  Martigny.  I  go  to  Mon 
Bijou  and  play  simple  four-hand  pieces  with  Made 
moiselle  Werner.  I  take  a  hand  in  the  occupations 
of  the  United  Kingdom,  even  in  Scotland's  crooked 
rowing.  I  give  Ireland  some  hints  about  her  bicycle 
riding,  and  sometimes,  of  an  afternoon,  I  walk  with 
England  up  to  the  Douvaine  route  and  back. 

I  have  never  been  so  active,  so  alert,  so  alive.  The 
days  are  full  of  a  gentle  excitement,  and  we  find  an 
embarrassment  of  delightful  things  to  do.  We  are  all 
of  us  intoxicated.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  spring.  And 

205 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


we  have  all  drunk  deep  of  it.  It  enters  with  every 
breath  we  take.  The  Chateau  itself  is  permeated 
with  it,  from  the  darkest  corner  of  Coco's  stall  to  the 
top  of  the  weather-vane  on  the  south  tower.  In  the 
night,  had  we  listened  intently  enough,  I  think  we 
could  have  heard  the  green  things  around  us  growing. 
It  is  a  delight  to  be  alive.  There  is  a  sense  of  good 
fortune  in  the  very  air.  It  is  not  so  much  mirth,  as 
an  abiding  happiness,  for  along  with  this  exuberance 
of  life  there  goes  a  certain  seriousness  that  gives  it 
balance  and  poise.  There  is  a  purpose  in  the  activity. 
In  the  flowers,  we  have  the  promise  of  fruit. 

It  is  the  season  for  loving.  Mr.  Tennyson  has 
something  to  say  about  this,  —  "  In  the  spring,  a  young 
man's  fancy  "  —  I  always  liked  that.  But  the  last  half 
line,  I  used  to  think,  needed  mending,  —  "  lightly  turns 
to  thoughts  of  love,"  —  for  not  knowing  anything 
about  it,  I  thought  he  meant  "  carelessly."  I  have 
more  insight  now.  I  see  that  he  means  "  easily," 
or  "sweetly,"  or  "deeply,"  "reverently,"  or  even 
"  gravely."  It  is  a  part  of  the  pulse-beat  of  things,  part 
of  the  marvelous  spirit  of  the  spring,  that  spirit  which 
so  saturates  one  with  happiness,  and  yet  brings  with 
it  an  undercurrent  of  unfulfilled  desire,  an  unutterable 
longing  for  something,  one  knows  not  what.  It  comes 
most  subtly  in  the  afternoons,  when  the  lengthening 
days  fill  one  with  a  curious  surprise,  and  the  slanting 
sunlight,  coming  at  unwonted  hours,  creates  a  fresh 
world  of  new  desires.  I  could  blame  no  one  at  such 
times  for  playing  truant,  and  following  whatever  will* 

206 


SUNSHINE 


o'-the-wisp  his  fancy  might  catch  for  him.  I  marvel 
that  schoolboys  can  stop  in  dull  schoolrooms  when 
the  spirit  of  the  spring  is  on  them,  and  the  slanting 
afternoon  sun  is  calling.  The  little  rascals  are  more 
docile  than  I  should  have  been,  had  fate  given  me  a 
schoolmaster  instead  of  my  wise  old  grandfather  Percy- 
field.  I  found  it  hard  enough  at  college,  and  indeed 
even  there  I  sometimes  gave  in,  and  cut  lecture  or 
laboratory  to  steal  off  to  the  Fens,  or  down  to  the 
coast. 

But  this  spring  it  is  all  curiously  different.  Life 
has  never  been  so  exuberant,  and  yet  I  have  none  of 
the  unrest  of  previous  years. 

I  have  given  up  the  idea  of  finding  Margaret  in 
Europe.  I  mean  now  to  seek  her  at  New  Orleans, 
but  it  is  not  likely  that  she  will  return  there  before 
the  autumn.  And  meanwhile,  I  have  much  to  do. 
Love  makes  one  very  humble.  I  realize  how  little  I 
have  to  offer  Margaret,  how  little  in  the  way  of  serious 
accomplishment.  I  have  never  been  a  lazy  man,  but 
my  activities  have  been  of  rather  an  amateurish  sort. 
I  have  the  uncomfortable  feeling  that  I  have  never  yet 
done  my  best.  I  have  the  habit  of  work  and  the  love 
for  it.  My  grandfather  Percyfield  gave  me  both  of 
these,  when  he  seemed  to  more  severe  people  to  be  giv 
ing  me  neither.  And  now  I  have  the  strongest  motive 
to  make  the  work  more  than  good,  —  to  make  it  the 
best  that  I  am  capable  of. 

But  our  dream  life  at  the  Chateau  was  suddenly 
interrupted. 

207 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


I  had  been  out  one  afternoon  on  Coco.  It  was  one 
of  the  fairest  of  days.  We  had  been  over  to  Jussy, 
and  around  home  by  way  of  Vandoeuvres  and  La 
Capite.  The  earth  was  fairly  aglow  with  beauty. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  if  Nature  must  feel  her  own  love 
liness  and  consciously  rejoice.  There  was  a  touch, 
too,  of  the  spring  languor  in  the  air,  just  enough  to 
restrain  undue  energy,  and  add  a  sense  of  tenderness 
to  one's  happiness.  I  came  down  the  lovely  avenue 
of  oaks  that  leads  from  Collonge  to  the  Chateau.  I 
let  Coco  take  his  own  pace,  and  Coco's  pace,  when  the 
matter  is  left  to  him,  is  always  slow.  I  was  myself 
entirely  occupied  with  the  beauty  all  around  me,  and 
when  I  did  think  at  all,  it  was  about  my  work  and 
plans.  I  came  slowly  riding  into  the  courtyard,  with 
that  entire  serenity  which  we  usually  do  bring  to  meet 
the  unexpected.  I  took  Coco  around  to  his  quarters, 
and  waited  until  Jean  came  to  unsaddle  him.  Then 
I  paused  for  some  time  to  note  the  progress  that  our 
wistaria  was  making,  and  to  admire  afresh  the  delicate 
green  mantle  of  the  Virginia  creeper.  I  pulled  one 
of  the  yellow  roses  from  the  trellis,  and  stuck  it  in  my 
buttonhole,  for  I  have  a  foolish  fondness  for  having  a 
single  flower  in  my  hand  or  about  my  person.  At  last 
I  went  up  the  stone  stairway  towards  my  room,  pulling 
off  my  riding-gloves  as  I  went.  There  is  a  very  pretty 
view  of  the  courtyard  from  the  window  of  the  corridor 
on  the  first  floor,  and  I  paused  for  a  few  minutes  to 
enjoy  it.  The  afternoon  was  so  heavenly  that  I  could 
hardly  bring  myself  to  come  entirely  indoors.  When 

208 


SUNSHINE 


I  turned  to  mount  the  next  flight  of  steps  to  my  own 
room  in  the  south  tower,  I  caught  sight  at  the  other 
end  of  the  corridor  of  an  old  colored  woman.  She  was 
evidently  quite  advanced  in  years,  for  her  hair  was 
perfectly  white,  but  she  still  held  herself  wonderfully 
erect.  I  was  considerably  surprised,  for  the  Chateau 
servants  are  all  Swiss  peasants,  and  it  is  rare  to  see  a 
colored  person,  even  in  Geneva.  The  old  woman  came 
along  the  corridor,  carrying  a  little  tray  in  her  hands, 
with  a  pot  of  tea  on  it,  and  a  small  pitcher  of  hot 
water.  I  had  already  started  upstairs,  but  when  the 
old  woman  reached  the  window  and  I  could  see  her 
face,  I  wheeled  around  with  a  great  shout,  "Aunt 
Viney,"  I  cried  ;  "  Aunt  Viney !  " 

The  old  woman  stopped  and  looked  at  me  intently. 
The  tray  fell  from  her  hands,  and  the  teapot  and 
water  pitcher  went  crashing  to  the  stone  pavement. 
But  Aunt  Viney  heeded  them  not.  She  grasped  both 
of  my  hands  in  her  two  bony  ones,  and  peered  into  my 
face.  She  was  trembling  with  excitement.  "  Marsa 
John !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  It  's  Marsa  John.  I  de- 
clar  to  goodness,  it 's  Marsa  John.  Oh,  honey,  whar 
you  bin  all  these  years  ?  I  done  thought  you  were 
dead,  fo'  shuh.  Mis'  Marg'ret  '11  be  mighty  pleased  to 
see  you  agin,  and  so  '11  Mis'  Lucy." 

"  They  are  well  ?  "  I  said  eagerly. 

"  Mis'  Marg'ret  is,  but  Mis'  Lucy  's  not  as  peart  as 
we-all  'ud  like  to  have  her ;  she  certainly  is  not.  I 
wur  jist  carryin'  her  some  hot  tea."  Aunt  Viney 
glanced  down  at  the  fragments  for  the  first  time, 

209 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


and  added  simply,  "  I  reckon  I  '11  have  to  git  some 
more." 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  had  wrecked  Mrs.  Rav- 
enel's  cup  of  tea,  I  had  to  keep  Aunt  Viney  a  few 
moments  longer  to  find  out  that  Margaret  and  Mrs. 
Ravenel  had  reached  the  Chateau  that  afternoon ; 
that  they  meant  to  stop  for  several  weeks ;  that  Mrs. 
Ravenel  was  lying  down  and  Margaret  attending  her, 
and  finally  that  both  ladies  would  be  at  dinner.  Then 
I  let  Aunt  Viney  go,  charging  her  to  tell  the  ladies 
how  rejoiced  I  was  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  them.  I 
snatched  the  rose  from  my  buttonhole,  and  bade  Aunt 
Viney  give  it  to  Margaret.  I  should  like  to  have 
added,  "  With  my  love,"  but  I  did  n't,  and  when  I 
came  to  think  about  it,  I  knew  that  the  rose  would 
speak  for  itself. 

And  Aunt  Viney  was  Mrs.  Ravenel's  maid  !  What 
a  great  stupid  I  had  been. 

I  finished  the  stairs  much  less  serenely  than  I  began 
them.  It  would  be  difficult  to  say  what  I  was  think 
ing  about,  for  my  thoughts  were  in  a  great  jumble. 
Probably  I  was  not  thinking  at  all,  for  I  was  so  taken 
up  with  the  sense  that  Margaret  was  here,  at  the 
Chateau,  and  that  I  should  see  her  in  less  than  two 
hours ! 

When  I  got  to  my  room,  I  threw  open  the  win 
dows  very  wide,  and  stood  looking  down  at  the  apple 
blossoms.  Then  I  walked  up  and  down  the  room. 
Finally  I  threw  myself  into  the  bent-wood  rocker 
that  the  Chatelaine  had  provided  for  American  rest* 

210 


SUNSHINE 


lessness,  and  simply  waited.  I  had  much  better  have 
been  dressing  for  dinner,  but  that  not  being  our  cus 
tom  at  the  Chateau,  it  did  not  occur  to  me.  I  believe 
I  did  wash  my  hands  and  face  and  brush  my  hair,  but 
that  was  all.  As  the  dinner  hour  approached,  —  and 
I  looked  at  my  watch  often  enough  to  keep  pretty 
good  track  of  the  time,  —  I  found  myself  growing  al 
most  afraid.  So  much  seemed  hanging  in  the  balance, 
not  only  the  present  and  the  future,  but  in  a  way,  even 
the  sincerity  of  the  past,  for  I  was  to  find  out  whether 
I  had  been  worshiping  a  reality  or  a  mirage.  Had 
Charlotte  been  there  then,  I  think  I  could  have  told 
her  everything.  What  a  comfort  she  would  have 
been.  But  I  should  not  have  asked  her  advice.  I 
knew  perfectly  well  what  I  was  going  to  do.  I  was 
going  to  be  my  natural  self,  as  nearly  as  could  be,  and 
let  come  what  would  come.  When  it  was  too  late,  I 
did  think  about  dressing,  but  on  the  whole  I  was  glad 
that  I  could  not  do  so.  In  an  excess  of  honesty  I  de 
cided  that  Margaret  must  see  me  just  as  I  was,  in 
everything,  just  a  plain,  homely  man,  with  more  taste 
than  talent. 

At  last  the  room,  big  as  it  is,  got  too  small  for  me, 
and  I  went  downstairs  to  the  garden.  I  busied  my 
self  hunting  the  trellis  for  another  rose,  as  nearly  like 
the  one  I  had  sent  Margaret  as  possible.  After  a  bit 
I  found  one,  the  exact  counterpart,  and  put  it  in  my 
buttonhole.  As  I  did  so,  I  heard  some  one  say,  in  a 
clear,  imperious  voice  that  was  both  familiar  and  un 
familiar,  "  I  think  this  must  be  Mr.  Percyfield." 

211 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


I  turned  around.    There  stood  Margaret. 

I  don't  know  what  I  said,  for  all  my  customary 
address  seemed  to  desert  me,  and  I  might  as  well 
have  been  a  shy  schoolboy.  I  remember  that  I  took 
Margaret's  hand,  and  that  I  did  it  most  clumsily.  The 
whole  meeting  would  have  been  foolishly  awkward, 
had  not  Margaret  said,  with  ready  tact,  "  It  seems  to 
me,  Mr.  Percyfield,  that  you  are  very  hard  to  please 
in  the  matter  of  roses." 

She  had  evidently  been  in  the  garden  for  some  mo 
ments,  and  had  observed  my  very  slow  selection. 

This  put  me  at  my  ease  at  once,  and  I  answered 
gayly,  "  You  know  men  are  always  stupid  about  match 
ing  things.  I  was  hunting  a  rose  precisely  like  the 
one  I  sent  you." 

Margaret  had  the  rose  pinned  to  her  gown.  She 
looked  down  at  it  and  then  at  mine,  and  said,  impar 
tially,  "  Well,  at  any  rate,  you  have  succeeded  admir 
ably." 

Then  we  turned  away  from  the  trellis  and  walked 
towards  the  Lake,  and  I  had  a  chance  to  tell  her  how 
happy  I  was  to  be  meeting  her  again. 

"  It  has  been  a  long  time,  has  it  not  ?  "  Margaret 
said.  "  More  than  a  dozen  years,  I  think.  We  shall 
have  to  be  getting  acquainted  over  again.  We  seem 
destined  always  to  start  our  acquaintance  in  a  garden." 

"  It  was  Moses'  idea  of  paradise,  you  know,"  I  said 
quickly. 

Margaret  laughed.  "Yes,"  she  said;  "when  I 
have  been  a  little  homesick  over  here,  the  old  garden 

212 


SUNSHINE 


at  Arlington  has  seemed  like  paradise.  But  do  you 
always  Lave  dinner  so  late  ?  I  am  growing  frightfully 
hungry.  If  there  were  any  apples  in  this  garden,  I 
should  be  tempted  to  imitate  my  remote  grandmother, 
and  steal  one." 

"  There  will  be  in  time,  you  see ;  we  Ve  a  great 
wealth  of  blossom.  But  I  can  promise  you  that  we  Ve 
no  serpents,  and  all  you  do  will  have  to  be  on  your 
own  responsibility." 

Margaret  made  a  wry  face.  "  That  sounds  tremen 
dous,"  she  said ;  "  I  think  I  shall  not  want  to  steal 
one,  after  that.  But  tell  me,  what  good  fortune  brings 
you  to  this  delightful  old  Chateau?  " 

"  It  was  evidently  the  chance  of  meeting  you.  I 
came  abroad  for  the  indeterminate  good." 

"  That  is  very  pretty,"  Margaret  answered,  "  and 
also  a  little  involved.  I  like  your  Quaker  plainness 
of  speech  better ;  such  as  your  grandfather  sometimes 
used." 

"  If  thee  prefers  it,"  I  answered,  mockingly,  "  it  is 
my  home,  this  old  Chateau,  and  it  is  thee  who  arrives 
and  must  explain  thy  coming." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  explain  about  us,"  Margaret 
replied ;  "  we  have  been  coming  and  going  the  past 
seven  months  or  more.  We  are  doing  a  very  common 
place  thing,  simply  making  the  grand  tour,  partly  for 
my  mother's  health,  but  chiefly,  I  think,  because  I  was 
growing  restless  in  New  Orleans,  and  this  was  the 
only  relief  that  offered."  I  thought  there  was  a  little 
wistfulness  in  Margaret's  voice.  She  did  not  mean 

213 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


it  to  be  noticed,  however,  and  added  brightly,  "  I  'm 
sure  you  have  a  more  interesting  story  to  tell.  You 
men  have  so  much  better  chance  than  we  have. 
Mademoiselle  de  Candolle  tells  me  that  you  have  been 
here  for  some  months." 

We  were  walking  up  and  down  the  avenue  under 
the  poplars.  I  did  not  take  Margaret  to  the  summer 
house,  —  her  summer  house  as  I  always  called  it  in 
my  thoughts.  I  was  saving  it  until  later,  perhaps 
until  I  was  sure  that  it  belonged  to  her. 

I  told  Margaret  a  little  of  my  life  at  the  Chateau, 
and  what  I  was  doing  there,  omitting,  as  it  seems  that 
one  usually  must,  the  most  important  part  of  the 
story.  I  had  a  chance  to  watch  Margaret  as  we 
walked.  I  was  not  at  first  impressed  with  the  radiant 
beauty  of  which  the  American  lady  had  spoken.  Mar 
garet  was  undoubtedly  beautiful,  but  I  had  to  get 
accustomed  to  her  beauty,  and  indeed  to  get  acquainted 
with  her.  The  years  had  made  a  difference.  I  had 
been  worshiping  a  child,  a  little  girl  with  large  brown 
eyes,  and  long,  sweet-smelling  chestnut  curls ;  an  im 
pulsive  little  creature  in  a  blue  gown  made  after  the 
sailor  fashion.  But  now,  I  was  talking  to  a  woman, 
and  at  first  her  resemblance  to  my  dream-child  tanta 
lized  me  more  than  it  comforted  me.  It  seemed  to 
tell  me  that  Margaret,  my  first  love,  was  gone,  was 
more  than  dead,  and  to  do  it  before  I  was  at  all  sure 
that  a  second  Margaret  was  coming  to  take  her  place. 

As  I  talked  to  Margaret  I  searched  her  face  eagerly, 
and  every  time  I  found  some  familiar  feature,  some 

214 


SUNSHINE 


old-time  movement,  I  felt  a  great  heart  throb.  There 
were  the  same  deep  brown  eyes,  but  they  seemed 
smaller,  now  that  they  were  set  in  the  woman's  larger 
face.  There  was  the  same  abundant  chestnut  hair, 
but  it  was  gathered  into  a  coil  and  showed  less  of  its 
wayward  curliness.  It  was  silly  to  expect  this  stately 
young  woman  to  affect  simple  sailor  blouses  of  blue 
serge,  but  I  could  not  help  being  disappointed  that 
she  did  not.  In  its  place  she  had  a  brown,  tailor-made 
gown,  quite  irreproachable,  I  suppose,  from  a  woman's 
point  of  view,  but  to  a  man's  uninstructed  eyes  some 
what  lacking  in  individuality.  I  have  heard  it  said 
that  women  dress  to  please  the  men,  but  this  is  utter 
nonsense.  They  dress  to  please  themselves  or  other 
women,  or,  for  that  matter,  to  please  the  dressmaker. 
If  we  men  dressed  them,  I  am  sure  of  one  thing,  they 
would  not  all  dress  alike. 

You  may  think  that  I  was  a  poor  sort  of  lover  to 
be  so  calmly  critical  of  Margaret,  but  you  must  re 
member  that  while  I  was  a  lover,  I  was  not  surely 
hers. 

Our  talk,  indeed,  was  far  from  lover-like.  It  was 
mainly  about  Europe  and  travel,  and  about  Mrs.  Rav- 
enel's  health,  and  the  outer  facts  of  life.  I  noticed 
that  I  fell  very  naturally  into  the  habit  of  calling 
Margaret,  Miss  Ravenel.  I  had  no  desire  to  call  her 
Margaret.  How  could  I  have,  when  I  was  not  sure 
that  it  was  the  real  Margaret  ?  I  was  simply  a  friendly 
gentleman  on  the  easy  terms  of  a  former  friendship, 
and  making  himself  as  agreeable  as  a  not  over-kind 

215 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


Nature  had  made  possible.  And  Margaret  was  simply 
a  well-poised,  well-bred  girl,  willing  to  charm,  if  she 
must,  but,  thank  heaven,  entirely  devoid  of  coquetry, 
and  talking  as  simply  and  naturally  as  Charlotte  would 
have  done.  Margaret  was  frankly  pleased  to  meet  an 
old  friend  and  exchange  experiences  with  him,  but  as 
far  as  I  could  see,  that  was  all.  She  had  apparently 
forgotten  that  we  had  been  child  lovers. 

But  I  was  not  always  so  unmoved.  There  were 
certain  notes  in  Margaret's  voice,  and  in  her  laugh 
that  sent  a  thrill  through  me  and  carried  me  back 
with  a  sweep  to  the  old  mansion  on  St.  Charles  Street. 
Then,  for  a  moment,  I  was  the  hot  little  lover  of 
the  old  time.  And  when  Margaret  smiled,  the  years 
vanished,  and  my  dream-child  stood  for  an  instant  be 
fore  me.  But  the  next  instant  it  was  Miss  Ravenel 
that  I  saw. 

When  the  old  bell  in  the  south  tower  rang  out  for 
dinner,  I  took  Margaret  through  the  archway  into  the 
courtyard.  I  was  pleased  to  see  her  falling  under  the 
spell  of  my  dear  Chateau.  "  What  a  perfectly  de 
lightful  place  it  is,"  she  exclaimed,  eagerly,  "  I  do  not 
wonder  that  you  are  enchanted  with  it.  I  should  like 
to  live  here  always." 

We  went  first  to  the  drawing-room,  where  the 
United  Kingdom  had  assembled  to  meet  our  new  pen- 
sionnaires.  I  could  see  at  once  that  England  and  Ire 
land  were  greatly  impressed  with  Margaret's  beauty 
and  charm.  I  foresaw  that  they  would  be  good 
friends,  and  I  was  proud  of  England  and  Ireland,  the 

216 


SUNSHINE 


dear  old  ladies.  They  were  worthy  representatives  of 
their  country,  if  they  were  all  wrong  in  their  politics, 
and  they  upheld  the  dignity  of  the  Chateau  splendidly. 
Ireland  had  on  one  of  her  old-fashioned  silks,  and  her 
lovely  pearls ;  and  England,  in  spite  of  the  advancing 
season,  carried  her  black  velvet  and  old  lace  with 
marked  success.  Scotland  was  the  only  one  who  be 
haved  badly.  She  seemed  to  have  fallen  back  at  least 
eight  months,  and  was  as  contrary  and  ungracious  as 
could  be.  She  had  not  forgotten,  however,  to  put  on 
her  best  frock. 

Mrs.  Ravenel  soon  joined  us.  She  had  changed 
much  less  than  Margaret,  and  looked  much  stronger 
than  I  had  expected  to  see  her.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
she  had  improved  with  the  years.  She  still  clung  to 
her  mourning,  but  her  widow's  cap  had  lavender  rib 
bons,  which  went  very  well  with  her  white  hair,  and 
she  seemed  in  every  way  less  absorbed  and  less  selfish 
than  I  remembered  her  as  a  boy.  Time  and  travel 
and  Margaret's  good  influence  had  had  their  effect. 
My  grandfather  Percyfield  was  always  very  consid 
erate  of  Mrs.  Ravenel  and  would  never  let  Charlotte 
or  me  say  anything  uncharitable  about  her.  He  al 
ways  maintained  that  at  heart  she  was  a  good  woman, 
and  that  if  we  had  had  anything  like  the  amount  of 
trouble  that  had  been  her  portion,  we  might  not  have 
come  out  of  it  any  better.  As  I  talked  with  Mrs. 
Ravenel  for  a  few  moments  before  we  went  into  the 
salle  a  manger,  I  recalled  all  this,  and  I  felt  glad,  as 
I  so  often  did,  to  have  my  grandfather  Percyfield's 

217 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


opinions  confirmed.  Somehow  I  wished  that  he  and 
my  mother  could  know. 

The  Chatelaine  meanwhile  flew  about  from  room  to 
room,  making  everybody  comfortable  and  happy,  and 
delighted  herself  to  have  this  pleasant  addition  to  our 
company. 

As  we  gathered  around  the  dinner  table,  we  seemed, 
if  anything,  rather  over-rich  in  women,  but  otherwise 
the  circle  was  faultless.  It  was  Mrs.  Ravenel  who 
noticed  the  disproportion,  as  Southern  women  I  think 
are  apt  to  do,  and  said  to  the  Chatelaine,  "  I  am  sorry, 
Mademoiselle  de  Candolle,  to  have  brought  you  a 
couple  more  women.  I  think  a  couple  of  men  would 
have  been  more  acceptable." 

Scotland  said  she  thought  so,  too,  which  struck  me 
as  a  curiously  rude  speech,  so  I  hastened  to  add, 
44  You  could  not  have  brought  more  welcome  guests, 
dear  Mrs.  Ravenel.  Had  there  been  any  change,  I 
could  wish  that  the  two  men  might  have  come  in 
addition,  perhaps  a  barelegged  laird  for  our  friend 
from  Scotland,  and  my  dear  Peyton  to  keep  up  the 
American  contingent.  You  notice  at  present  that 
Uncle  Sam  and  John  Bull  are  just  balanced." 

But  Scotland  did  not  like  my  pleasantry,  and  said 
nothing  but  disagreeable  things  all  the  rest  of  the 
dinner.  I  wonder  if  my  gentle  grandfather  Percyfield 
could  have  stood  up  for  Scotland.  I  expect  so,  for 
whatever  was  wrong  with  Scotland,  he  would  have 
discovered  it,  but  I  had  not  the  wit  to. 

After  dinner  we  all  went  back  to  the  drawing-room. 
218 


SUNSHINE 


The  Chatelaine  made  us  a  cheery  fire  of  twigs  and 
branches,  and  we  formed  a  large  circle  around  the 
hearth.  I  stationed  myself  near  Mrs.  Ravenel,  rather 
from  a  feeling  that  it  was  the  proper  thing  to  do,  and 
Margaret  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  group.  I  was 
rather  glad  of  this  arrangement,  for  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  watching  Margaret. 

In  these  gatherings  of  ours  in  the  drawing-room  of 
the  Chateau,  we  had  rather  cultivated  the  habit  of 
talking  in  monologues.  In  a  drawing-room  there 
should  be  but  one  speaker  at  a  time.  A  private  call 
is  the  proper  occasion  for  tete-a-tetes.  But  in  a  com 
pany  of  people,  if  half  talk  to  the  other  half,  the  din 
is  terrific,  and  nothing  very  much  worth  while  is 
likely  to  be  said.  It  is  a  custom  which  seems  to  make 
the  whole  company  superfluous  save  the  one  person  to 
whom  you  happen  to  be  talking,  or,  worse  still,  to 
whom  you  are  trying  to  listen.  But  if  one  person 
speaks  and  all  the  rest  listen,  there  is  comparative 
quiet,  and  the  one  speaker  is  apt  to  say  far  better 
things  than  if  he  were  struggling  in  the  general  din 
to  make  one  person  hear  him.  I  have  noticed 
that  deaf  persons  are  usually  spared  the  inanities 
which  sometimes  pass  for  conversation,  —  even  the 
originators  of  the  inanities  hesitate  to  shout  them. 
When  you  mean  to  tell  a  thing  on  the  housetops,  it  is 
wise  to  see  to  it  that  the  thing  is  worth  telling.  Talk 
ing  in  monologues  demands  the  same  precaution.  It 
lifts  conversation  to  a  higher  level,  and  makes  a  man 
bestir  himself.  He  will  not  say  the  casual  and  incon- 

219 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


siderate  things  to  a  group  of  people  that  he  might 
lazily  say  to  one.  I  had  well  drilled  the  Chatelaine 
and  the  United  Kingdom  in  the  theory  and  practice 
of  the  monologue.  It  was  the  less  gracious  task,  per 
haps,  since  I  was  usually  the  monologuer.  But  then, 
as  England  would  say,  you  must  usually  pay  a  price 
for  all  benefits,  must  n't  you  ? 

The  ladies  of  the  Chateau  had  their  reward  the 
evening  Margaret  came,  and  indeed  many  evenings 
thereafter.  Margaret  had  not  lost  her  old  dramatic 
sense.  Like  everything  else  about  her,  it  was  less  unre 
strained,  but  it  was  there  in  full  force,  possibly  even 
heightened.  She  no  longer  cared  to  faint  and  be 
carried  off  to  the  Castle  of  Monaco,  but  in  telling  us 
about  their  travels  and  adventures,  she  had  the  un 
conscious  art  of  a  great  actress.  Scene  after  scene 
passed  before  us,  and  with  such  vividness  and  such 
truth  to  the  life  that  we  were  all  taken  by  storm, 
except  possibly  Scotland,  and  I  think  that  even  she 
was  not  entirely  unmoved.  For  myself,  I  was  in  the 
seventh  heaven  of  delight.  I  had  all  the  pleasure  of 
the  other  listeners,  and  in  addition  a  pleasure  they 
could  not  know  of.  For  me,  it  was  a  process  of  find 
ing  Margaret,  of  regaining  my  comrade.  For  once, 
I  was  glad  to  be  the  humblest  of  spectators.  It  mat 
tered  not  that  I  had  failed  to  call  out  this  splendid 
dramatic  touch  when  we  were  alone  in  the  garden.  It 
needed  this  group  of  people  to  do  it.  My  theory  of 
the  monologue  was  working  splendidly. 

Later,  Margaret  went  to  the  piano  and  played  for 
220 


SUNSHINE 


us.  She  refused  to  play  Chopin,  for  she  said  he  was 
too  emotional.  But  she  played  Schumann  and  a  little 
Beethoven.  During  the  playing  Scotland  got  up  and 
left  the  room.  I  did  not  know  what  was  the  matter, 
but  somehow  I  felt  dreadfully  sorry  for  her.  Marga 
ret  broke  off  her  playing  much  sooner  than  we  wanted 
her  to,  for  she  declared  that  it  was  quite  time  to 
carry  her  mother  off  to  bed,  and  that  already  the  lady 
had  been  dissipating  in  sitting  up  so  late.  Mrs. 
Eavenel  said  kindly  that  it  had  been  a  long  time  since 
they  had  had  so  much  temptation  to  dissipate.  Then 
the  mother  and  daughter  withdrew,  leaving  in  the 
drawing-room  three  admiring  women  and  a  bewildered 
man.  England  and  Ireland  and  the  Chatelaine  were 
all  loud  in  their  praises  of  my  countrywomen,  and 
England  said  graciously  that  she  quite  understood  why 
I  was  so  proud  of  being  an  American. 

We  thought  we  were  happy  at  the  Chateau  before, 
but  after  the  coming  of  Margaret  and  her  mother  we 
were  still  happier,  not  I  alone,  but  all  of  us,  save  pos 
sibly  Scotland,  who  continued  to  act  so  strangely  that 
I  once  asked  the  Chatelaine  what  could  be  the  matter 
with  her,  but  she  would  give  me  no  direct  answer,  and 
said  it  was  kinder  not  to  ask. 

So  the  spirit  of  the  spring  deepened  at  the  Chateau, 
and  each  day  became  more  lovely.  Margaret  could 
not  have  come  at  a  better  time.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
earth  had  robed  herself  to  meet  her,  and  Margaret 
fell  under  the  enchantment  of  it.  The  slight  tone  of 
wistiulness  that  I  had  noticed  at  our  first  meeting 

221 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


never  reappeared.  I  could  see  that  Margaret  was 
happier  than  she  had  been  for  some  time.  It  is  a  way 
the  Chateau  has  of  making  most  people  happy.  I 
once  told  the  Chatelaine  that  it  was  all  a  fable  about 
the  Chateau's  having  been  built  by  the  duke  of  Savoy, 
a  transparent  fable ;  that  I  knew  better.  It  was  an 
enchanted  castle,  and  I  trembled  lest  some  morning  I 
should  waken  and  find  there  was  no  such  place. 

"And  where  would  you  be,  then  ?  "  asked  the  Chat 
elaine,  by  way  of  disproof. 

"  In  misery,"  said  I,  "  dark,  dank,  dismal  misery." 

"I  think  it  won't  happen,"  said  the  Chatelaine, 
cheerily,  "but  you  must  make  hay  while  the  sun 
shines ; "  and  she  left  me  to  guess  her  meaning.  She 
is  a  sympathetic  soul,  is  the  Chatelaine,  and  often, 
when  she  looks  at  me  with  those  clear,  truth-loving 
gray  eyes  of  hers,  I  fancy  that  she  can  read  my  very 
thoughts.  I  am  very  fond  of  the  Chatelaine. 

Outwardly,  our  life  at  the  Chateau  goes  on  much 
as  usual.  I  seldom  see  Margaret  until  luncheon.  She 
takes  morning  coffee  with  her  mother  in  their  rooms, 
and  spends  the  greater  part  of  the  morning  reading 
to  her  and  waiting  on  her.  When  Mrs.  Ravenel  first 
came  to  the  Chateau  she  did  not  rise  until  just  time 
to  dress  for  luncheon,  and  only  then  would  Margaret 
resign  her  to  the  care  of  Aunt  Viney.  But  Mrs. 
Ravenel  has  been  growing  stronger,  Margaret  and 
I  both  think,  since  she  has  come  to  Beau-Rivage, 
and  now  the  rising  hour  is  slipping  along  to  eleven, 
and  even  half  past  ten.  This  gives  Margaret  more 

222 


SUNSHINE 


leisure,  but  it  avails  nothing  to  me,  for  in  the  morn 
ing  Margaret  will  never  let  me  join  her.  If  she  walks 
in  the  garden,  or  pulls  out  a  bit  on  the  Lake,  and  I 
spy  her  from  my  window,  as  I  am  very  likely  to  do, 
since  I  have  dragged  my  big  writing-table  over  to  the 
window  for  that  special  purpose,  I  find  it  very  difficult 
not  to  slip  downstairs  just  for  a  moment  to  pass  the 
time  of  day  with  Margaret.  But  she  sends  me  back 
to  my  work  at  once  and  will  have  none  of  it. 

She  is  so  very  severe  that  once  I  threatened  to 
rebel,  but  she  silenced  me  completely.  She  said  their 
coming  to  the  Chateau  and  our  meeting  had  been  a 
pure  accident,  and  that  if  she  found  she  was  inter 
rupting  my  work,  she  would  whisk  her  mother  and 
herself  off  in  the  night,  and  never  let  me  know  so 
much  as  where  they  had  gone.  From  previous  expe 
rience  with  a  certain  little  girl  in  New  Orleans,  I  half 
suspected  that  Margaret  was  capable  of  it.  But  I 
liked  her  the  better  for  it.  These  little  imperious 
ways  of  Margaret  are  inconvenient,  but  I  welcomed 
them  always,  for  they  seemed  to  fuse  the  new  Marga 
ret  into  the  old.  I  liked,  too,  the  earnestness  of  it. 
It  made  me  think  that  one  can  have  a  purpose  in  life 
on  the  lower  Mississippi  as  well  as  on  the  Delaware. 

But  Margaret  need  not  worry  about  my  work.  It 
is  going  on  famously.  She  gave  me  an  immense  up 
lift  when  she  wrote  her  name  in  the  register  at  Pom 
peii,  and  the  impulse  is  not  spent.  I  think  Charlotte, 
the  wise  one,  would  notice  a  difference  in  my  work.  I 
wrote  her,  of  course,  about  the  Ravenels'  being  at  the 

223 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


Chateau,  and  what  a  pleasure  it  is  to  have  them  here. 
But  I  have  not  told  her  of  the  curious  drama  that  is 
going  on  in  my  own  heart.  Charlotte  keeps  writing 
for  more  news  about  Margaret,  how  I  like  her,  and  if 
I  see  much  of  her,  and  many  other  leading  questions ; 
for  Charlotte,  like  most  happily  married  people,  is  bent 
on  getting  all  the  rest  of  us  happily  married.  I  am 
afraid  that  my  letters  are  rather  unsatisfactory.  At 
least  Charlotte  says  they  are,  and  Charlotte  is  nothing 
if  not  frank. 

So  I  continue  to  work  steadily  for  three  or  four 
hours  every  morning.  But  in  the  afternoons  it  is  dif 
ferent. 

Margaret  also  has  theories,  and  one  of  them  is  that 
short  hours  of  concentrated  work  are  better  than  a 
whole  day's  dull  grind.  So  she  quite  abets  my  spend 
ing  the  afternoons  away  from  the  south  tower.  Very 
often  she  joins  me  in  an  outing.  Sometimes  she  feels 
that  she  must  stop  at  home  with  her  mother,  and  then 
you  may  be  sure  that  I  remain  also.  But  Mrs.  liav- 
enel  is  really  the  best-behaved  old  lady,  given  to  in- 
validism,  that  we  have  ever  had  at  the  Chateau.  Made 
moiselle  de  Candolle  says  so.  I  am  afraid  this  kind 
hostess  of  ours  has  had  a  series  of  curios,  and  alacka- 
day,  they  have  not  all  been  European. 

Mrs.  Ravenel  spends  nearly  every  fine  afternoon  in 
the  garden,  attended  always  by  the  faithful  Aunt 
Viney.  England  and  Ireland  have  got  into  the  way 
of  joining  her  there.  It  is  a  pretty  sight  to  see  these 
elderly  gentlewomen  sitting  under  the  great  green 

224 


SUNSHINE 


parasol  of  the  sycamore  tree  or  walking  slowly  up  and 
down  between  the  poplars. 

When  Mrs.  Ravenel  is  so  comfortably  provided  for, 
Margaret  feels  free  for  any  outing  I  may  propose. 
She  has  a  delightful  streak  of  adventure  in  her,  and 
sometimes  it  puzzles  me  to  find  an  outing  quite  excit 
ing  enough  for  her.  However,  the  season  itself  is 
exciting ;  it  is  so  beautiful.  Margaret  has  never  seen 
a  Swiss  summer,  and  her  enthusiasm,  added  to  mine, 
makes  a  pretty  full  charge.  Sometimes  we  take  the 
tram  and  go  into  Geneva  to  hunt  for  pretty  things  in 
the  shops  and  to  explore  the  old  parts  of  the  city.  Once 
we  bought  some  wood  carvings  at  a  little  shop  on  the 
rue  du  Rhone,  and  the  shopwoman  offered  to  make  out 
the  bill  for  something  less  than  the  amount,  so  that 
the  customs  duty  at  home  would  be  less.  It  is  quite 
a  common  practice.  I  thought  Margaret  would  anni 
hilate  the  little  woman,  she  was  so  indignant  at  the 
suggestion.  At  such  times  Margaret's  eyes  flash  fire 
and  she  is  radiantly  beautiful.  It  is  not  a  doll-baby 
sort  of  beauty,  I  assure  you,  but  something  much  more 
fierce  and  volcanic. 

Occasionally  we  take  the  steamboat  at  the  Beau- 
Kivage  landing  and  go  over  to  Nyon  or  Morges.  Once 
we  went  up  the  Dole  together.  Very  frequently  we 
are  off  on  our  wheels,  the  Chatelaine  along  with  us. 
Margaret  shares  the  Chatelaine's  preference  for  the 
lower  road  along  the  Lake,  and  so  we  go  often  to 
Yvoire,  the  beautiful,  and  drink  afternoon  tea  at  Ma 
dame  Thonon's  little  restaurant.  The  Swiss  peasants 

225 


JOHN  PEKCYFIELD 


are  rather  a  stolid  people.  I  do  not  know  whether  it 
is  their  code  of  manners,  or  whether  the  constant  pre 
sence  in  their  beautiful  country  of  such  crowds  of 
strangers  breeds  a  certain  indifference,  but  I  think 
they  stare  less  than  any  nation  that  I  have  acquaint 
ance  with.  But  they  do  stare  at  Margaret.  She  seems 
to  fascinate  them.  They  call  her  la  belle  Americaine. 
I  think  it  is  not  so  much  her  beauty  that  attracts 
them  as  a  certain  grace  and  her  atmosphere  of  flawless, 
childlike  goodness.  It  is  natural  for  the  Chatelaine  to 
love  Margaret,  and  for  me  she  has  a  generous  affec 
tion  that  I  much  value.  I  think  she  looks  upon  us 
both  almost  as  her  children.  She  was  very  fearful  at 
first  that  she  might  be  in  the  way,  and  I  had  some  dif 
ficulty  to  reassure  her.  But  she  never  could  be  in  the 
way,  and  I  should  be  a  much  more  selfish  fellow  than 
I  am  if  I  denied  the  Chatelaine  the  frank  pleasure 
she  takes  in  Margaret.  Indeed,  there  is  no  reason 
why  she  should  not  go  along.  Margaret  is  pleased  to 
have  me  with  her.  I  can  readily  see  that,  for  she 
takes  no  pains  to  disguise  it.  But  it  seems  to  be  the 
simple  pleasure  that  any  young  woman  might  feel  in 
the  company  of  a  man  of  average  intelligence,  and 
in  part  of  a  common  past.  Perhaps,  too,  it  is  a  relief 
after  the  rather  dreary  round  of  female  pensionnaires. 
Charlotte  would  not  approve  of  this  last  remark. 

Several  times  I  have  had  another  horse  from  the 
village,  and  with  Margaret  on  the  now  properly 
behaved  Coco  we  have  made  some  glorious  prome 
nades  a  cheval.  Margaret  was  delighted  to  get  her 

226 


SUNSHINE 


riding  habit  out.  She  said  she  had  not  worn  it  once 
since  she  had  been  in  Europe.  I  had  hoped  that  it 
would  be  blue,  but  it  is  dark  green.  However,  it  goes 
very  well  with  Coco's  gray  flanks,  and  it  suits  Mar 
garet  quite  as  well.  Margaret  enjoys  these  rides  and 
even  Coco's  latent  willfulness.  My  own  chestnut  mount 
is  nothing  to  boast  of,  but  he  has  n't  been  able  to 
throw  me  yet,  so  I  do  not  mind.  It  seems  to  me,  in 
deed,  that  each  ride  is  better  than  the  last,  and  I  often 
wonder  whether  in  all  Europe  there  is  a  man  quite  so 
lucky  as  I  am.  On  the  whole,  I  think  not. 

But  more  frequently  than  anything  else,  we  go  to 
walk.  We  cannot  go  so  far,  but  there  are  delightful 
little  bypaths  to  explore,  and  every  tramp  we  find 
some  new  beauty.  In  truth,  one  does  not  have  to 
search  for  beauty  when  it  is  the  springtime  in  Swit 
zerland,  and  now  that  June  has  come,  we  have  the 
more  mature  beauty  of  the  early  summer.  There  is 
less  physical  exultation  in  these  walks  than  when  we 
go  on  the  saddle  or  in  the  saddle,  —  by  which  I  mean 
a- wheeling  or  a-horseback  riding,  —  but  on  the  whole 
I  enjoy  them  more.  The  talk  is  more  connected.  I 
get  nearer  to  Margaret,  and  I  am  coming  to  know  her 
better.  We  speak  often  of  the  child  days  at  New 
Orleans.  It  gives  me  a  thrill  to  find  that  Margaret 
dwells  on  them  as  lovingly  as  I  do.  The  tears  came 
to  her  eyes  when  I  told  her  that  my  mother  and  my 
grandfather  Percyfield  were  no  longer  at  Uplands. 
She  evidently  keeps  a  warm  spot  for  them  in  her  heart, 
as  she  well  may,  for  they  loved  her  sincerely.  And 

227 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


Margaret  has  much  to  tell  me  of  our  old  playfellows, 
Randolph  and  Peyton.  They  have  turned  out,  she 
says,  much  as  one  might  have  expected.  Randolph  is 
a  practical,  hard-headed  fellow,  who  manages  the 
Bellevue  plantation  with  great  ability.  He  has  mar 
ried  one  of  the  younger  Mason  girls.  And  Peyton  ? 
Margaret  says  he  is  as  beautiful  as  my  Endymion,  a 
dreamy  fellow  whom  everybody  loves,  and  whom  every 
body  treats  precisely  as  if  he  were  a  boy.  Randolph, 
it  seems,  is  considered  the  successful  one,  but  he  is 
not  so  much  loved  as  Peyton.  For  one  thing  he  is  so 
busy ;  he  has  no  time.  But  Peyton  seems  to  have  all 
the  time  there  is.  He  has  never  married.  The  idea 
of  his  marrying  amuses  Margaret,  for  she  evidently 
looks  upon  him  as  a  mere  boy.  She  says  he  has  never 
done  any  special  thing,  but  she  believes  he  will  some 
day,  for  he  has  qualities  which  no  one  else  seems  to 
possess.  He  writes  verses,  he  paints  a  little,  he  plays 
and  sings  very  sweetly,  —  in  a  word,  he  is  an  ideal  com 
rade.  Margaret  speaks  of  him  with  enthusiasm,  and 
I  am  not  one  whit  jealous.  I  know  that  he  is  made 
of  finer  clay  than  ever  I  was,  and  that  I  can  never 
hope  to  equal  him,  at  least  in  this  life.  It  has  aroused 
all  my  old  love  for  Peyton  to  have  Margaret  speak 
of  him  in  this  enthusiastic  way.  Could  we  have  met 
him  this  afternoon  in  the  beautiful  wood  path  beyond 
Madame  du  Chene's,  where  we  happened  to  be  walk 
ing  when  Margaret  told  me  about  him,  I  know  I 
should  have  put  my  arms  around  him  the  way  the 
burly  Germans  do  —  yes,  and  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks 

228 


SUNSHINE 


as  they  do,  too,  and  called  him  '  little  brother.'  Mar 
garet  made  Peyton  seem  so  real  to  me  that  I  shall 
never  again  be  able  to  see  a  narrow  alley  through  the 
greenery  without  thinking  of  him ;  only  it  must  have 
a  clear  blue  sky  end  to  it,  or  it  would  not  stand  for 
Peyton. 

To  be  beautiful  and  good,  to  have  all  the  world  love 
you,  what  more  could  one  ask  of  the  gods.  It  is  a 
poem,  a  picture,  a  symphony  in  itself. 

We  have  spoken,  too,  about  Charlotte,  and  it  is 
pretty  to  see  Margaret's  affection  rekindling  as  I  go 
on  to  tell  her  at  some  length  about  this  best  of  good 
sisters.  And  Margaret  made  me  tell  her  about  Fred 
eric,  and  as  much  as  possible  about  the  little  son  that 
I  have  never  seen.  She  was  vastly  interested,  and  set 
to  work  at  once  to  make  a  pretty  little  jacket  for  the 
small  boy.  She  had  it  sent  off  with  a  couple  of  gold 
pins  before  I  supposed  it  could  be  well  under  way.  I 
did  not  tell  Margaret,  but  I  happen  to  know  that  if 
this  morsel  of  humanity  should  wear  all  his  stick  pins 
at  once,  he  would  resemble  an  animated  pincushion. 
For  a  time,  Charlotte  used  to  begin  her  letters  to  me 
in  this  wise,  —  "  To-day,  the  twenty-seventh  came," — 
and  I  always  knew  it  referred  to  gold  pins  for  the 
baby. 

And  now  you  may  well  be  wondering  what  was 
going  on  in  my  own  heart.  Well,  in  truth,  a  great 
deal  was  happening,  but,  as  usual,  it  was  the  unex 
pected.  Every  day  I  found  in  Miss  Ravenel  some 
charming  reminder  of  the  little  Margaret,  and  I  had 

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JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


so  many  sudden  heart  throbs  that  I  was  like  to  set 
up  a  chronic  palpitation.  But  I  was  not  finding  the 
ideal  woman  into  which  in  my  own  thought  the  little 
Margaret  had  been  growing.  I  was  coming  to  learn, 
though,  that  when  a  man  sets  to  work  to  create  an 
ideal  woman,  he  makes  a  pretty  sad  mess  of  it.  It  is 
not  so  simple  an  undertaking  for  us  mortal  men  as  was 
the  process  in  Eden.  And  then  after  we  get  them 
created,  if  we  had  to  marry  them,  I  fancy  we  should 
be  greatly  bored  and  have  a  pretty  miserable  time  of 
it  generally. 

The  truth  is  that  the  real  Margaret  is  a  revelation 
to  me.  If  I  ask  myself  whether  I  love  her  or  not,  I  can 
hardly  say,  for  more  than  anything  else  I  am  bewil 
dered.  I  know  very  well  that  I  admire  her.  I  know 
that  I  like  to  be  with  her  better  than  with  any  one  I 
have  ever  seen  before,  but  she  takes  my  breath  away. 
Her  whole  nature  is  so  much  richer  and  fuller  and 
more  resourceful  than  the  shadow  woman  that  I  have 
been  living  with,  that  I  have  to  readjust  myself.  The 
shadow  woman  begins  to  seem  like  a  dreadful  prig,  a 
bundle  of  abstract  qualities,  with  the  exquisite  tender 
ness,  the  graciousness  and  charm  that  characterize  red- 
blooded  women  all  left  out.  And  when  you  begin  to 
suspect  your  idol  of  priggishness,  you  may  know  that 
it  is  soon  about  to  be  shattered,  for  of  all  the  counter 
feits  of  virtue,  priggishness  seems  to  me  about  the 
cheapest.  As  the  weeks  of  this  enchanted  spring 
time  and  early  summer  go  flying  past,  I  confess  that 
my  poor  idol  is  being  completely  shattered,  and  in  the 

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SUNSHINE 


garden  of  the  heart,  I  dislike  to  come  across  even  a 
fragment  of  it.  Margaret  has  done  this  for  me, — 
she  has  reseued  me  from  being  a  doctrinaire  in  the 
matters  of  the  heart.  And  that  is  really  what  is  the 
matter  with  all  old  bachelors  and  sonneteers.  They 
are  so  busy  with  their  silly  theorizing,  they  have  n't 
any  time  to  really  love.  The  solid  ground  that  re 
mains  to  me  is  that  I  did  love  the  little  Margaret 
with  the  knightly  passion  of  boyhood,  more  tender  and 
more  lasting,  I  think,  than  it  is  given  to  most  boys  to 
love,  and  that  in  the  present  Margaret  I  have  a  woman 
whom  I  neither  love  nor  do  not  love. 

In  this  way  it  has  come  about  that  the  longer  Mar 
garet  stops  at  the  Chateau,  the  simpler  and  sweeter 
our  intercourse  becomes.  There  are  no  more  scenes 
like  that  at  the  trellis  when  Margaret  first  came  to  the 
Chateau.  In  everything  that  she  resembles  the  little 
Margaret,  I  love  her,  and  in  everything  that  she  does 
not,  I  have  to  get  acquainted  with  her.  She  is  charm 
ingly  frank,  even  boyish,  as  we  come  to  know  each 
other  better.  If  she  happens  to  be  in  the  garden  of 
a  morning,  and  sees  me  at  my  work  before  I  spy  her, 
—  which  does  not  happen  to  her  very  often,  —  she 
calls  up  to  me  in  her  sweet  contralto,  "  Good-morning, 
Mr.  Scribbler.  The  top  of  the  morning  to  you,  since 
you  are  up  so  high,"  and  I  call  back  to  her,  "  Good- 
morning,  Wood  Sprite.  It  is  you  who  keep  me  here. 
I  'in  dreadfully  afraid  I  shall  fall."  «  You  'd  better 
not,"  she  cries,  warningly ;  "  you  know  what  will 
happen  to  you.  You  '11  be  sent  right  back."  Then 

231 


JOHN  PEKCYFIELD 


she  moves  away  so  that  the  work  may  go  on  undis^ 
turbed. 

I  have  noticed  that  dark  eyes  in  women  very  often 
go  with  contralto  voices,  and  blue  eyes  with  the  soprano. 
I  should  not  want  to  fancy  Margaret  with  any  other 
voice  than  just  her  own.  Some  of  her  notes  are  as 
rich  and  deep  as  a  tenor's,  and  when  she  calls  up  to 
my  tower,  she  falls  quite  naturally  into  the  way  of 
singing.  She  can  yodel  to  perfection.  I  think  this 
is  another  reason  why  the  peasants  like  her. 

As  the  weather  grows  warmer,  Margaret  has  laid 
aside  her  conventional  tailor-made  gowns,  and  appears 
more  and  more  in  the  simple  white  things  that  I  love, 
—  dimity,  I  think  you  call  them ;  it  sounds  pretty  at 
any  rate.  They  make  her  look  more  girlish,  more 
Southern,  and  anything  that  does  this  gives  me  an 
additional  heart  throb. 

We  have  our  windows  open  constantly  now.  One 
morning  I  heard  Mrs.  Ravenel  whistle.  It  was  the 
old  aria,  and  meant  "  Margaret,  come  here."  I  listened 
breathlessly  for  the  answer.  It  came,  an  octave  higher, 
that  second  aria,  "  Yes,  mother,  I  am  coming."  I  am 
a  foolish  fellow,  but  I  did  no  more  work  that  morning. 
I  was  building  bridges  into  the  past. 

These  are  rare  days  at  the  Chateau  de  Beau-Eivage 
and  I  think  we  are  all  of  us  the  better  for  them.  The 
rest,  the  simple  country  life,  the  happiness,  are  all  do 
ing  Margaret  a  world  of  good.  She  fairly  blossoms 
with  all  the  other  sweet  things  this  marvelous  spring. 
I  can  understand  now  why  the  American  lady  called 

232 


SUNSHINE 


Margaret  radiantly  beautiful.  I  am  finding  her  so, 
too.  And  it  seems  to  me  that  Margaret  shows  each 
day  some  new  suggestion  of  her  old  self,  of  the  little 
Margaret  that  I  love.  It  may  be  that  unconsciously 
I  am  watching  for  these  signs,  or  perhaps  changes  are 
taking  place  in  Margaret,  now  that  she  is  less  worried 
about  her  mother.  I  think  that  many  of  these  little 
things  would  have  seemed  to  me,  as  indeed  they  are, 
nothing  but  trifles  and  would  have  passed  quite  un 
noticed,  if  it  were  not  for  that  curiously  persistent 
character  of  my  mental  images  which  I  have  already 
mentioned.  For  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  help  seeing 
the  little  Margaret,  and  I  cannot  help  feeling  perfectly 
delighted  whenever  the  newer  images  coincide  with  the 
old  ones.  It  was  quite  in  line  with  these  foolish 
fancies  that  I  had  the  greatest  desire  to  see  Margaret 
with  her  hair  down  and  dressed  in  a  blue  sailor  gown. 
The  thought  kept  bothering  me  all  one  morning  until 
I  was  entirely  vexed  with  myself  for  being  so  stupidly 
given  to  details.  At  luncheon,  as  if  in  answer  to  my 
thought,  Margaret  appeared  with  her  hair  down  her 
back,  a  little  wet  and  straggly,  to  be  sure,  but  the  same 
abundant  chestnut  curls  and  giving  out  the  same  sweet 
odor.  It  seems  that  Margaret  and  the  Chatelaine  had 
been  in  the  Lake  to  bathe,  the  first  plunge  of  the 
season,  and  to  satisfy  Mrs.  Ravenel,  Margaret  had 
left  her  hair  down  until  it  should  dry.  She  apolo 
gized  very  prettily  for  it.  Then  I  had  a  sudden  in 
spiration. 

"The  Lake  has  wet  your   hair   in  this  thorough 
233 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


fashion,"  said  I,  "  it  ought  to  be  good  enough  to  dry 
it  for  you.  Let  us  go  out  in  the  boat  directly  after 
luncheon,  and  paddle  around  in  the  sun  until  your 
hair  is  quite  dry." 

Mrs.  Ravenel  much  approved  of  so  hygienic  a  plan 
and  thanked  me  for  it  so  genuinely  that  I  was  a  bit 
ashamed  to  think  that  the  plan  had  not  a  grain  of  al 
truism  in  it.  Partly  to  please  her  mother,  and  partly 
because  the  prospect  of  having  the  wind  sweep  through 
her  hair  seemed  agreeable,  Margaret  willingly  fell  in 
with  the  plan  and  went  off  to  get  ready.  Then  I  had  a 
second  inspiration.  I  suggested  that  if  she  had  a  boat 
ing  suit,  she  had  better  put  it  on,  and  added  half 
jestingly  that  I  should  myself  prefer  blue  to  match  the 
Lake  and  the  sky,  — it  was  a  perfect  day,  and  the  Lake 
carried  all  shades  of  blue  and  turquoise,  while  the  sky 
was  a  somewhat  lighter  tint.  It  was  such  an  improb 
able  hazard  that  I  expected  nothing  to  come  of  it,  but 
I  was  mistaken.  A  few  moments  later  Margaret  ap 
peared  on  our  little  quay.  She  had  on  a  blue  serge 
gown  made  with  a  sailor  waist,  and  her  long  chestnut 
curls  swept  her  shoulders.  The  illusion  was  complete. 
It  was  no  longer  Switzerland,  but  New  Orleans. 
Better  still,  it  was  no  longer  Miss  Ravenel,  but  the 
little  Margaret,  whom  I  seemed  to  be  rowing  about  in 
the  sunshine.  I  don't  wonder  that  Fletcher  Mason 
wanted  to  kiss  her.  As  the  wind  tossed  Margaret's 
curls  about,  and  the  sun  brought  out  the  golden  gleam 
in  them,  they  formed  just  such  an  aureole  about  the 
oval  face,  with  its  high  cheek  bones  and  sparkling 

234 


SUNSHINE 


brown  eyes,  as  I  had  often  seen  in  our  play  at  Here 
ford  Hall.  The  face  was  just  as  resolute,  just  as  im 
perious,  but  there  was  something  more  in  it,  an  element 
that  baffled  me.  You  have  the  best  chance  in  the 
world  to  study  a  face  when  you  are  in  a  small  row- 
boat.  It  is  natural  to  look  straight  ahead  and  this 
brings  the  stern  seat  directly  into  the  foreground.  I 
could  not  quite  make  out  this  new  element  in  Mar 
garet's  face.  It  may  have  been  an  added  tenderness, 
the  touch  of  sorrow,  for  she  has  been  much  worried 
about  her  mother.  Perhaps  some  other  feelings  are 
wakening  in  her  soul.  At  any  rate,  she  was  very 
beautiful.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  a  boy  again. 
It  was  natural  for  us  to  talk  of  New  Orleans.  I  asked 
if  she  remembered  our  acting  and  the  Castle  of  Mo 
naco. 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  she  answered.  "  It  was  great 
fun,  was  n't  it  ?  Mother  and  I  went  to  the  real  Castle 
last  winter,  and  I  could  n't  help  thinking  of  the  dining- 
room  at  dear  old  Arlington,  all  the  time.  I  doubt 
if  any  little  prince  had  as  good  a  time  as  we  did.  Did 
you  go  to  Monaco  when  you  were  on  the  Riviera  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  went  there  on  purpose.  I  had 
hoped  to  find  you  there." 

"  Well,  if  you  had  come  at  the  right  time,"  Mar 
garet  answered,  in  that  impartial  way  she  has  of  turn 
ing  the  talk  into  less  personal  channels,  "  you  might 
have  taken  mother  and  me  through  the  Castle.  But 
it  seems,  you  didn't." 

Now,  she  was  just  a  trifle  mischievous,  quite  as  the 
235 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


little  Margaret  might  have  been.  But  I  was  bent  on 
reminiscing,  and  as  I  went  on  I  grew  rather  bolder. 
"  Do  you  remember,"  said  I,  "  how  I  always  told  you 
I  was  going  to  marry  you  ?  " 

Margaret  answered  with  apparent  unconcern,  "And 
do  you  recall  how  I  always  said  I  would  n't  ?  But  we 
had  a  good  time,  even  if  you  were  a  dreadful  tease. 
Do  tell  me  more  about  Charlotte.  I  'd  much  rather 
have  you  talk  about  her  than  about  yourself.  Does 
she  still  call  you  '  kin,'  and  does  she  live  out  at  Up 
lands  ? "  And  quite  whether  I  would  or  not,  the 
talk  glided  into  wider  channels  and  it  came  time  to 
go  in. 

We  found  Mrs.  Kavenel  in  the  garden,  and  I  de 
voted  myself  to  her  while  Margaret  went  to  dress. 

"  Miss  Ravenel  tells  me  that  you  were  at  Monaco 
last  winter,"  I  said,  by  way  of  making  conversation. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Ravenel,  "  Margaret  would 
go  there  for  the  sake  of  old  times.  I  think  you  had 
such  a  castle  in  your  play,  did  you  not  ?  It  is  a  very 
picturesque  place.  And  we  went  on,  of  course,  to 
Monte  Carlo.  But  neither  Margaret  nor  I  cared  to 
go  into  the  Casino.  It  is  a  dreadful  place,  is  it  not? 
The  gardens  are  very  beautiful.  I  think  I  enjoyed 
the  day  there  as  much  as  any  place  we  visited  in  Eu 
rope.  We  drove  over  from  Nice."  Mrs.  Ravenel 
always  spoke  about  Europe  as  if  she  were  not  in  it, 
but  had  only  been  here  and  had  got  back  to  America. 
She  went  on  talking  pleasantly  about  their  travels. 

But  I  was  a  dull  companion.  What  I  was  thinking 
236 


SUNSHINE 


about  all  the  time  was  this,  that  Margaret,  like  my 
self,  had  gone  to  Monaco  on  purpose  to  recall  old  days. 
It  might  have  been  a  mere  caprice,  or  it  might  have 
been  from  a  deeper  feeling.  I  kept  wondering  which 
it  could  be.  But  it  was  useless  to  try  to  fathom 
Margaret,  when  I  could  not  fathom  myself,  for  even 
then,  had  I  asked  myself  whether  I  loved  this  beauti 
ful  countrywoman  of  mine,  I  could  not  have  said.  In 
the  boat,  there  had  been  no  mistake  about  it.  I  had 
loved  her  with  my  whole  heart.  But  we  were  for  the 
moment  both  children  again.  I  could  not  say,  now 
that  we  had  come  back  to  the  present,  how  it  was.  It 
is  one  thing  to  admire  a  woman  and  quite  another 
thing  to  love  her.  I  should  be  sorry  to  love  a  woman 
whom  I  did  not  admire,  for  I  should  feel  that  the  love 
was  quite  unworthy  and  must  be  put  aside  at  whatever 
cost.  But  it  would  be  just  as  sad  a  mistake  to  take 
admiration  or  fancy  or  any  other  sentiment  whatever, 
for  love.  We  can  admire  many  people,  fancy  them, 
if  you  please,  or  even  love  them  in  a  certain  friendly 
way,  but  the  grand  passion,  the  love  that  either  makes 
or  mars  one's  life,  that  takes  possession  of  one's  very 
being,  that  makes  one  hot  or  cold,  strong  or  weak, 
tempest  or  calm,  that  makes  a  London  fog  a  paradise, 
or  the  Kiviera  a  desert,  this  comes  but  once.  It  is  a 
tremendous  experience.  God  help  the  man  or  woman 
who  gets  a  counterfeit. 

My  young  friend,  the  artist,  is  always  falling  in  love. 
At  least  he  says  he  is.  And  the  affair  lasts  sometimes 
as  much  as  six  months.  The  average  is  considerably 

237 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


shorter  than  that.  When  I  see  him,  I  say  to  him, 
"  Is  it  on  or  off  ?"  and  the  answer  is  as  likely  to  be 
one  thing  as  the  other.  Or,  sometimes,  I  say  to  him, 

44  And  at  present,  the  name  is ?  "  or  I  threaten  to 

buy  him  an  alphabetical  list  of  Christian  names.  And 
the  droll  part  is  that  he  keeps  a  journal  and  puts  down 
all  these  experiences.  He  sends  it  to  me  from  time 
to  time  to  read.  But  we  two  are  the  only  ones  who 
ever  see  it,  so  you  must  not  think  there  is  any  sac 
rilege.  It  is  a  dainty  record,  very  sweet  and  whole 
some,  a  series  of  little  pastorals,  like  a  morning  in 
May,  —  but  it  is  not  love.  What  the  artist  loves  is 
not  these  "  dainty  rogues  in  porcelain,"  as  I  call  them, 
mimicking  for  the  once  the  obscure  Mr.  Meredith, 
but  the  pretty  idea  of  love.  Sometimes  I  add  a 
paragraph  to  the  journal,  and  I  am  apt  to  say  some 
thing  like  this,  "  Love  and  Fancy  are  twin  sisters ;  a 
man  must  be  careful  not  to  mistake  one  for  the  other. 
The  one  leads  to  supreme  happiness,  the  other  to 
misery ; "  or  else  I  write,  "  Do  I  love  my  love,  or  do  I 
love  the  thought  of  being  loved  ?  "  and  let  the  pretty 
words  go  for  what  they  are  worth.  But  they  apply, 
I  think,  more  to  women  than  to  men.  I  fear  me  that 
women  more  often  fall  in  love  with  the  idea  of  being 
loved  than  with  the  man  who  loves  them.  We  naturally 
do  not  hear  as  distinctly  of  refusals  as  we  do  of  en 
gagements,  for  a  rejected  lover  is  not  apt  to  speak 
of  the  matter.  There  seem,  however,  to  be  more  ac* 
ceptances  than  refusals.  When  you  consider  that  a 
woman's  choice  is  limited  to  those  who  offer,  I  am  left 

238 


SUNSHINE 


between  two  opinions,  either  that  women  are  very 
tender-hearted,  or  else  that  they  love  to  be  loved  and 
are  under  an  illusion.  To  be  sure  we  once  had  a  famous 
belle  in  Philadelphia,  who  married  the  hundredth  man 
who  proposed  to  her,  and  I  believe  did  n't  hit  it  off  so 
very  well  either.  She  used  to  come  out  to  Uplands 
sometimes  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  Charlotte  and  I  al 
ways  stood  in  great  awe  of  her,  for  she  brought  her 
maid  and  never  took  any  breakfast.  But  one  would 
not  think  of  taking  such  a  career  seriously. 

The  artist  is  a  sunny  youngster,  and  when  I  say 
these  things,  he  laughs  and  tells  me  I  'm  a  crooked 
old  bachelor,  and  don't  know  anything  about  the  mat 
ter.  I  think  there  ought  to  be  a  limit  to  that  term, 
an  old  bachelor,  and  one  ought  not  to  be  so  called 
until  one  is  at  least  thirty. 


CHAPTER  IX 

INDOORS 

You  must  not  think  that  it  was  all  sunshine  at 
the  Chateau  this  spring,  —  I  mean  literal  sunshine. 
There  were  bits  of  nasty  weather,  rain  and  cold  and 
wind,  that  made  me  think  of  the  coming  of  spring  in 
New  England,  a  process  which  even  the  Boston  people 
admit  not  to  be  entirely  satisfactory.  But  there  was 
sunshine  indoors  the  whole  time.  In  fact  it  is  always 
sunshine  where  the  dear  Chatelaine  is.  She  is  cheery 
and  bright,  the  brave  little  woman,  whatever  the 
weather  or  circumstance.  The  United  Kingdom  also, 
can  ever  be  relied  upon  to  have  all  flags  flying,  and  of 
late  even  Scotland  has  come  out  of  her  trying  humor, 
and  is  as  well  behaved  as  she  knows  how  to  be.  When 
to  this  regular  group  you  add  Margaret,  with  her  splen 
did  beauty  and  high  spirits  and  good  health,  and  Mrs. 
Ravenel,  with  that  later  gentleness  which  always 
touches  me  so  deeply,  you  will  admit  that  we  have  very 
good  society.  • 

When  I  wrote  to  Charlotte,  my  letters  were  so  bub 
bling  over  with  happiness  that  they  seemed  fairly 
boastful.  Had  I  been  superstitious,  I  should  always 
have  touched  wood  in  ending  them,  lest  the  gods  be 
jealous  and  make  the  days  less  sunny.  But  this  must 

240 


INDOORS 


not  be  taken  quite  seriously,  for  I  believe  in  happi 
ness,  and  hold  that  it  is  a  great  pity  that  we  do  not 
have  more  of  it.  It  is  a  quality  you  can  cultivate. 
On  the  whole,  I  think  it  is  more  useful  than  mathe 
matics,  but  this  you  must  remember  is  the  opinion  of 
a  man  who  never  keeps  accounts,  and  has  not  tasted 
the  spiritual  joy  of  having  them  come  out  to  a  penny 
at  the  end  of  the  week  or  the  fortnight. 

It  is  a  splendid  thing  to  be  young  and  strong  and 
free,  splendid  to  own  the  whole  of  your  day,  and  to  feel 
that  no  one  else  commands  it,  save  as  you  give  your 
moral  assent  to  their  demands.  I  have  ever  felt  sorry 
for  the  men  who  take  positions,  greedy  either  of  the 
honor  or  of  the  salary,  for  it  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  sell 
your  time,  your  life,  —  a  modern  version  of  the  world- 
old  tragedy  of  slavery.  I  know  all  the  plausibilities 
that  surround  the  modern  version  ;  how  it  is  held  to  be 
useful,  and  unselfish,  and  a  great  opportunity,  and 
quite  the  thing  to  do,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  and  I  do 
not  believe  them.  One  must  be  a  man  first  and  last 
and  always. 

After  all,  how  much  depends  on  our  ideas.  The 
practical  Charlotte  tells  me  that  I  have  more  taste 
than  talent,  but  tragic  as  that  is,  one  need  not  be 
down-hearted  about  it.  There  have  been  times,  I  con 
fess,  when  I  wrote  gloomy  verses  about  life's  limita 
tions,  and  when  I  had  rather  disgruntled  moments 
with  myself,  in  spite  of  my  grandfather  Percyfield's 
brave  teaching.  But  truly  I  have  given  that  all  up. 
I  am  taking  myself  as  I  am,  and  such  as  it  is,  trying 

241 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


to  make  the  most  of  it.  I  am  not  clever  and  beauti 
ful,  like  Peyton  ;  or  quick-witted,  like  Charlotte ;  or 
resourceful,  like  Margaret ;  and  I  used  to  take  it  hard 
that  I  was  none  of  these  things.  But  God,  in  his  great 
goodness,  granted  me  this  boon,  the  idea  of  the  splen 
dor  of  life,  and  when  I  try  to  live  up  to  that,  it  is 
sunshine  always. 

Since  Margaret  has  come  to  the  Chateau  there 
have  been  moments  when  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  have 
more  than  my  share  of  the  happiness  of  life.  The 
Puritan  blood  in  me  that  comes  from  my  grandfather 
Marston  made  me  feel  a  little  guilty  at  rinding  life  so 
sweet.  It  is  a  curious  tendency.  And  all  the  time 
there  was  a  sort  of  double  consciousness.  I  knew  per 
fectly  well  in  my  heart  that  happiness  is  not  a  pension 
fund  to  be  dealt  out  in  driblets  to  widows  and  orphans, 
but  a  magnificent  contagion.  The  more  you  have  of 
it,  the  more  you  may  have.  It  is  very  catching.  In 
this  spirit  I  set  about  making  myself  agreeable  to  the 
United  Kingdom,  and  being  additionally  considerate 
of  poor  Mrs.  Ravenel,  who  is  really  more  of  an  invalid 
than  I  had  thought.  With  Margaret  and  the  Chate 
laine,  I  am  simply  my  happy  self,  and  after  all,  that 
is  the  highest  compliment  you  can  pay  a  body. 

Then,  in  addition  to  the  good  company,  we  have  the 
Chateau,  and  this  is  a  delight  in  all  sorts  and  condi 
tions  of  weather.  In  the  tremendous  garret  over  the 
main  building  of  the  Chateau  we  have  set  up  a  tennis 
court.  The  garret  is  paved  with  red  tile,  and  a  few 
chalk  lines  turned  it  into  a  respectable  court.  Mar- 

242 


INDOORS 


garet,  the  Chatelaine,  Scotland,  and  I  made  a  good 
four,  while  England  and  Ireland  were  enthusiastic  on 
lookers.  I  could  never  get  England  to  initiate  her 
new  racket,  and  finally  began  to  taunt  her  with  being 
rheumatic  and  not  wanting  to  show  it,  but  she 
promptly  displayed  an  iron  ring  which  she  had  bought 
in  Germany,  and  which  she  assured  me  was  a  positive 
warder-off  of  any  such  visitation.  England  is  prone 
to  take  all  remarks  seriously,  even  the  remarks  of 
venders  of  iron  rings.  Margaret  and  Scotland  usually 
played  together,  and  the  Chatelaine  and  I  had  to  do 
our  best,  if  we  wanted  to  beat  them.  Margaret  ever 
had  ready  tact.  She  divined  that  Scotland,  for  some 
reason,  did  not  take  to  her,  and  this  scheme  of  playing 
together  did  more  to  win  Scotland  over  than  anything 
Margaret  could  have  done.  I  should  have  preferred 
to  play  with  Margaret,  for,  as  I  have  said,  it  gives  you 
such  a  chummy  feeling  to  be  on  the  same  side,  but 
this  other  arrangement  had  the  advantage  that  I  could 
watch  Margaret.  It  was  almost  as  good  as  rowing 
her  on  the  Lake. 

Sometimes  on  rainy  days  Margaret  and  I  used  to 
go  to  the  north  tower,  to  the  very  top  floor,  and  hang 
out  of  the  window  on  the  sheltered  side  to  see  if  we 
could  catch  a  glimpse  of  Mont  Blanc.  Usually  it 
was  hidden  with  the  rest  of  the  world  in  a  mantle  of 
fog  or  rain.  But  sometimes,  through  the  brouillard, 
when  the  sun  was  shining  on  the  topmost  snow,  we 
would  get  a  curious  glow  that  seemed  like  a  spectral 
mountain.  I  remember  the  same  effect  at  Tacoma  in 

243 


JOHN  PEKCYFIELD 


looking  at  Mount  Rainier.  One  could  walk  along 
the  streets  and  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  great 
mountain  without  seeing  a  sign  of  it,  only  the  low, 
scrubby  hills  that  surround  Puget  Sound,  and  beyond 
them  a  purplish  gray  haze  that  seemed  to  bespeak 
unending  space.  In  a  few  moments,  if  one  looked 
again,  the  tremendous  white  cone  of  Rainier  rose 
above  the  haze  like  the  ghost  of  a  mountain,  or  like 
a  projection  from  some  giant  magic  lantern  on  the 
curtain  of  the  sky.  The  effect  was  absolutely  star 
tling. 

I  liked  to  be  with  Margaret  in  that  old  north  tower. 
It  has  a  double  window.  Margaret  would  take  pos 
session  of  one,  and  I  of  the  other.  I  liked  to  feel  that 
she  was  so  near.  Leaning  on  the  window  sill,  with  our 
heads  out  of  the  window  and  under  the  projecting  dor 
mer,  we  could  talk  together  quite  as  if  we  had  been 
out  in  space  somewhere  and  had  taken  only  our  heads 
along  with  us.  We  could  look  down  on  the  chimney 
pots  and  the  tiled  roof  of  the  north  wing  of  the  Cha 
teau,  the  wing  that  shelters  Monsieur  Coco.  And  that 
roof  is  well  worth  gazing  upon.  It  is  all  shades  of 
dull  yellow  and  brown  and  brick-red,  with  here  and 
there  the  bright  green  of  some  dainty  moss,  or  the 
vivid  yellow  of  a  little  lichen.  I  quite  lost  my  heart 
to  it  the  very  first  time  the  Chatelaine  showed  it  to 
me,  and  decided  then  and  there  that  when  I  come  to 
build  my  house  in  America,  I  shall  have  just  such  a 
tiled  roof.  I  was  speaking  about  it  one  day  to  Mar 
garet,  and  she  said  in  great  surprise,  — 

244 


INDOORS 


"  Are  you  going  to  build  a  house  ?  Shall  you  not 
be  living  at  Uplands  ?  " 

" '  Yes  '  to  one  part  of  your  question,  and  '  No '  to 
the  other*"  I  answered.  "  Uplands  belongs  to  my  aunt 
Percyfield,  you  know,  during  her  lifetime.  It  is  my 
home  now,  of  course ;  but  when  I  marry,  I  shall  want 
a  place  all  to  Madame  and  myself." 

"But  what  will  you  do  with  Uplands?"  asked 
Margaret.  "I  cannot  think  of  you  as  living  any 
where  else." 

"I  should  hardly  want  to  live  there,  and  feel  that 
my  aunt  Percyfield  was  in  the  way,  as  she  surely  would 
be,  for  she  is  not  an  agreeable  old  gentlewoman,  you 
know." 

"  I  think  you  once  intimated  as  much,"  said  Mar 
garet,  laughing. 

"  I  should  rather  hate  myself,  too,  to  feel  that  I  was 
waiting  for  dead  men's  shoes,"  I  continued.  "  I  want 
my  aunt  Percyfield  to  live  a  long,  long  time,  —  until 
she  gets  a  deal  better  prepared  for  heaven  than  she  is 
now,"  I  added  under  my  breath,  but  Margaret  heard 
me  and  laughed  in  spite  of  her  disapproval.  —  "  And 
then  when  my  aunt  Percyfield  does  reach  a  saintly  old 
age  and  is  gathered  to  her  fathers,  I  want  Charlotte 
to  have  Uplands.  She  is  not  so  much  interested  in 
architecture  as  I  am,  and  would  find  it  harder  to  build 
a  place.  Besides,  she  loves  Uplands  as  much  as  I  do, 
or  nearly  as  much." 

"  You  seem  to  have  thought  it  all  out,"  said  Mar 
garet.  "  Suppose  that  Madame  objects  ?  " 

245 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


"  But  she  won't,"  I  answered  gayly. 

•*  How  do  you  know  ?  "  persisted  Margaret. 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,  we  shall  love  each  other  so 
much  that  it  won't  make  a  rap's  difference  to  either  of 
us  where  we  are,  provided  it 's  beautiful  and  whole 
some.  Of  course  we  should  n't  want  to  have  colds  in 
our  heads  or  get  malaria,  for  that  would  be  most  inar 
tistic." 

"  You  are  an  incorrigible  dreamer,"  laughed  Mar 
garet.  uBut  don't  be  too  sure  about  Madame.  You'd 
better  have  your  place  near  the  station  so  that  she  can 
go  into  town  easily  in  case  she  gets  bored  or  wants  a 
new  gown." 

"There  would  be  no  one  to  bore  her." 

"  That  in  itself  might  be  the  trouble,  and  you  can't 
deny  the  necessity  of  the  new  gowns,"  said  Margaret. 

"  Beauty  unadorned,  you  know." 

"  Whipped  cream  and  angel  cake,  with  poetry  for 
dessert,"  said  Margaret,  ironically ;  "  but  pray  where 
is  this  Eden  to  be  ?  " 

"  In  some  part  of  our  beautiful  Chester  Valley,  I 
hope,  and  within  easy  driving  distance  of  Uplands." 

u  So  that  you  can  at  least  go  and  see  your  aunt 
Percyfield,"  suggested  Margaret,  mischievously. 

"  No ;  so  that  she  can  come  and  see  us." 

"  And  get  converted,  I  suppose,"  added  Margaret. 

"  Precisely." 

"  Shall  you  build  a  chateau?  " 

"  Perhaps.  I  've  thought  of  it,  since  I  've  come  to 
love  this  one  so  much.  Do  you  know  that  with  just  a 

246 


INDOORS 


little  altering  of  the  plan  this  would  make  a  splendid 
country  house  in  America." 

"  Shall  you  call  it  the  <  Chateau  de  Beau-Rivage '  ?  " 

"  Hardly.  That  would  be  as  bad  as  some  of  the 
names  down  at  Bryn  Mawr.  We  've  no  water  in  the 
Chester  Valley,  you  know,  save  the  little  Valley  Creek. 
I  had  thought  of  the  *  Chateau  de  Monrepos.'  What 
do  you  think  of  that  for  a  name  ?  " 

"  It 's  pretty  enough,"  said  Margaret,  "  but  it  sounds 
lazy  for  so  active  a  man  as  you." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  It  would  be  a  protest  against  our 
American  rush,  a  place  for  artists  and  musicians  and 
writers  to  come  for  a  time  and  catch  their  breath,  for 
all  my  friends,  indeed,  who  care  for  life  more  than  for 
what  they  call  4  business.'  " 

"  Peyton,  for  instance  ?  " 

"Yes,  Peyton  of  all  people.  A  sort  of  artistic 
court,  you  know,  with  Madame  as  the  gracious  host 
ess." 

"  It  sounds  like  '  The  Princess,'  with  men  at  last 
admitted,"  said  Margaret.  "  Did  you  think  out  the 
name,  or  did  you  borrow  it  ?  " 

"I  cribbed  it  straight  and  square  from  Carmen 
Sylva.  It  was  the  name  of  her  home  near  Neuwied." 

"  I  remember.     And  do  you  care  for  her  ?  " 

"  Very  much." 

"  But  you  never  met  any  one  like  her,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  think  you  are  like  her." 

"  That 's  rather  a  bald  compliment,"  said  Margaret ; 
and  Yhen  after  a  moment's  pause,  she  added,  "  But, 

247 


JOHN   PEKCYFIELD 


tell  me,  how  could  you  ever  reconcile  yourself  to  live 
in  a  chateau  when  your  neighbors  had  nothing  but 
little  wooden  houses  ?  I  thought  you  were  too  much 
of  a  social  democrat  for  that." 

"  You  're  laughing  at  me." 

"  No,  I  'm  serious.  And  to  name  your  chateau 
after  the  home  of  even  a  hard-working  queen  would 
shock  your  socialist  friends." 

"  Yes,  I  've  thought  of  that.  It  seemed  to  me, 
though,  that  a  court  such  as  I  want  to  establish,  or 
rather  such  a  court  as  I  shall  establish  —  for  Madame 
is  to  be  so  clever  that  all  things  will  be  possible  to 
her  —  such  a  court  might  help  on  democracy  and  inter 
nationalism.  It  would  be  the  great  object  in  estab 
lishing  it.  The  ideas  I  stand  for  want  to  be  lived  out 
generously  and  splendidly,  by  clever  people,  not  merely 
talked  about  in  ugly  little  lecture  halls  in  town." 

"  That 's  perfectly  true,"  said  Margaret,  "  but  you 
must  be  careful  not  to  frighten  your  neighbors  with 
too  big  ideas  all  at  once.  You  would  hate  your  cha 
teau  if  you  found  it  was  a  barrier  between  you  and 
the  people  you  wanted  to  reach,  —  just  your  plain, 
everyday  neighbors." 

"  Of  course  I  should.  I  am  only  toying  with  the 
idea  of  a  chateau.  In  the  end  I  shall  probably  build 
a  story-and-a-half  house,  pretty,  though,  and  low  and 
rambling,  and  be  content  to  call  it '  Marston  Grange.' " 

"  You  might  be  just  a  little  more  aristocratic  than 
that,"  said  Margaret.  "  It 's  such  a  wide  jump  from 
a  chateau  to  a  grange.  Call  it '  Marston  Manor.' " 

248 


INDOORS 


"  The  4  Manor '  might  shut  out  the  neighbors." 

"  Not  if  the  living-room  were  on  the  ground  floor, 
and  the  front  door  stood  wide  open,  and  Madame  be  so 
beautiful  and  so  clever  as  you  say  she  is  to  be." 

"  When  I  think  of  Madame,  I  am  inclined  to  name 
it  the  '  Castle  of  Monaco.'  " 

"  That  would  be  a  stupid  name,"  said  Margaret  in 
the  most  matter-of-fact  way.  "  You  'd  better  show 
some  respect  to  your  remote  ancestors  and  call  it 
4  Hereford  Hall.'  But  whatever  you  call  it,  I  think 
you  are  quite  right  about  the  tiled  roof.  It  will 
take  you  some  time,  though,  to  get  one  as  pretty  as 
this." 

"  No,  indeed,  it  won't.  I  shall  be  as  resourceful  as 
the  Count  of  Monte  Cristo.  I  shall  send  to  the  De 
partment  of  Agriculture  and  get  some  spores  of  bright 
green  moss  and  vivid  yellow  lichen,  and  having  de 
posited  them  with  a  little  earth  on  my  tiled  roof,  I 
shall  have  Pompey  play  the  hose  on  them  every  day. 
We  might  gather  such  a  look  of  respectable  antiquity 
about  us  that  even  Professor  Norton  would  be  inclined 
to  spare  us  in  the  general  demolition  of  the  ugly  which 
he  hopes  some  day  to  inaugurate." 

"  What  a  mixture  of  earnestness  and  nonsense  you 
are,  anyway,"  laughed  Margaret. 

I  had  no  chance  to  give  her  any  further  evidence  on 
this  point,  however,  for  just  then  we  heard  Mrs. 
RaveneF s  whistle,  and  Margaret's  little  aria,  an  octave 
higher,  rang  out,  "Yes,  mother,  I  am  coming,"  and 
it  was  good-by  for  that  afternoon. 

249 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


Then  the  drawing-room  is  a  great  resource  in  stormy 
weather.  It  is  so  big  that  we  never  felt  ourselves 
prisoners.  We  could  look  out  on  the  dripping  orchard, 
or  from  the  large  west  window  could  watch  the  Lake, 
and  see  how  it  and  the  Juras  opposite  were  taking  the 
rain.  Margaret  used  to  play  and  sing  most  obligingly, 
sometimes  for  hours  together,  and  I  could  never  get 
enough  of  it.  At  times  I  almost  wished  that  it  might 
rain  forever,  and  nothing  happen  to  interrupt  the  happy 
days  we  were  having. 

There  is  a  big  closet  opening  out  of  a  corner  of 
the  drawing-room.  In  fact,  it  is  a  small  room,  only 
it  has  no  window  in  it.  The  closet  is  filled  with 
books,  in  French,  for  the  most  part,  but  also  in  Eng 
lish,  and  a  few  in  German. 

We  read  a  number  of  the  English  books  aloud, 
Margaret  and  I  taking  turns  in  reading,  while  Mrs. 
Ravenel  and  the  others  listened.  Margaret  read  so 
much  better  than  I  did,  that  sometimes,  after  they  had 
all  gone  to  bed,  and  left  me  to  my  scales  and  etudes, 
I  used  to  practice  reading  aloud.  I  tried  to  put  into 
my  own  reading  some  of  the  dramatic  force  that  made 
Margaret's  reading  so  charming.  I  did  not  have  the 
kind  Mademoiselle  Werner's  thought  to  help  me,  but 
I  think  I  made  some  progress. 

When  Margaret  and  I  were  left  to  ourselves  we 
used  to  read  French,  sometimes  looking  over  the  same 
book,  and  sometimes  taking  turns  in  reading  aloud. 
We  chose  French  in  order  to  get  the  different  point 
of  view,  and  also  for  the  fine  practice  it  gave  us.  My 

250 


INDOORS 


own  French  is  somewhat  better  than  Margaret's,  for 
my  mother  taught  me  so  carefully  when  I  was  a  boy. 
It  was  at  Margaret's  suggestion  that  we  read  the  life 
of  Carmen  Sylva.  She  said  laughingly  that  she 
wanted  to  see  a  picture  of  herself,  but  I  quite  declined 
to  call  it  a  picture,  and  said  that  they  simply  had 
genius  in  common.  I  had  read  the  book  before,  but 
when  I  came  to  the  death  of  the  little  Princess  Marie 
I  could  not  go  on,  it  is  so  dreadfully  sad.  I  tried  very 
hard  to  swallow  the  lump  in  my  throat,  but  it  was  no 
use.  It  was  a  little  difficult,  too,  to  see  the  words.  I 
looked  over  at  Margaret.  Her  own  eyes  were  full  of 
tears.  Without  saying  anything,  she  reached  over 
and  took  one  side  of  the  book,  and  we  read  it  together 
silently.  At  the  end  of  the  chapter,  Margaret  went 
over  to  the  piano  and  played  for  a  time  very  softly 
and  sweetly. 

In  the  evening,  the  whole  Chateau  usually  gath 
ered  in  the  drawing-room,  —  that  is,  Margaret  and 
Mrs.  Ravenel,  the  United  Kingdom,  and  the  Chate 
laine,  and  myself.  With  my  democratic  ideas  I  should 
like  to  have  had  the  servants,  too.  Of  all  of  us,  they 
seemed  the  most  to  need  this  glimpse  into  an  ideal 
world.  But  it  would  have  shocked  Mrs.  Ravenel  and 
the  imperialists,  and,  furthermore,  the  Chatelaine  said 
it  was  regrettable,  but  doubtless  it  would  bore  the  ser 
vants  themselves.  I  told  her  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Emerson  had  once  tried  having  their  servant  eat  with 
them,  and  that  they  could  stand  it,  but  the  servant 
could  n't.  "  It  is  a  story  with  both  a  funny  and  a 

251 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


tragic  side,  is  it  not  ? "  said  the  Chatelaine,  and  I 
liked  her  comment  immensely.  However,  I  often 
managed  to  smuggle  Aunt  Viney  into  the  drawing- 
room  under  pretense  of  having  her  in  attendance  on 
Mrs.  Ravenel. 

When  I  build  the  Chateau  de  Monrepos,  or  Here 
ford  Hall,  or  Marston  Manor,  or  whatever  my  coun 
try  house  shall  eventually  be  called,  I  mean  to  carry 
out  this  democratic  purpose,  and  have  the  servants 
genuinely  share  in  the  spiritual  life  of  the  mansion. 
Jt  seems  to  me  a  dreadful  thing  that  we  people  who 
pride  ourselves  on  being  the  flower  of  the  human 
family  should  create  about  us  such  a  brutal  lot  as 
the  typical  servants  of  the  upper-class  world.  The 
servants  in  England  are  a  particularly  ghastly  lot. 
The  admitted  ideal  is  to  have  them  as  wooden,  as 
nearly  automatic,  as  possible.  The  Germans  are 
ahead  of  us  Anglo-Saxons  in  that  respect.  They  may 
be  clumsy  in  their  language,  and  put  all  their  verbs 
into  the  second  volume,  but  they  have  human  relations 
with  their  servants.  When  Charlotte  and  I  went  from 
Zurich  to  London,  we  stopped  for  a  time  in  Portland 
Square.  The  first  morning,  as  I  came  down  to  break 
fast,  I  saw  a  decent-looking  woman  sweeping  the 
stairs.  I  said  "  Good-morning,"  as  I  always  do  at 
home.  The  woman  looked  at  me  in  amazement,  as  if 
she  had  never,  in  the  whole  course  of  her  genteel  life, 
met  such  a  manifest  case  of  ill-breeding.  I  meant  at 
first  to  stand  out  against  that  sort  of  thing,  but  in  the 
end  the  environment  won.  After  a  few  days,  if  an 

252 


INDOOKS 


English  servant  spoke  to  me,  except,  of  course,  to  say 
"  Thank  you,"  in  precisely  the  way  talking  dolls  say 
"  Mamma,  Papa,"  I  was  as  much  astonished  as  if  the 
piano  had  gently  remarked,  "  Why  don't  you  fix  your 
hair?" 

It  was  still  too  chilly  for  the  elderly  ladies  to  be  in 
the  garden  after  dark,  even  in  the  fairest  of  weather, 
so  these  evenings  in  the  drawing-room  became  an 
established  feature  of  our  life  at  the  Chateau.  They 
did  not  lack  variety.  Everybody  contributed  some 
thing.  The  Chatelaine  gave  us  the  history  of  the 
Chateau,  and  many  unwritten  chapters  of  Genevois 
life.  England  and  Ireland  supplied  anecdotes  about 
the  peasantry  and  the  nobility.  They  seemed  to  be 
utterly  ignorant  of  the  great  middle  class  of  my 
dear  Matthew  Arnold.  Even  Scotland,  to  our  sur 
prise,  gave  us  some  Highland  ballads,  and  recited 
them  admirably.  Aunt  Viney  sang  us  plantation 
melodies  in  a  low  falsetto  voice,  and  occasionally  the 
sweet  revival  hymns  of  the  jubilee  singers. 

The  United  Kingdom  like  my  American  stories, 
and  so  does  Mrs.  Kavenel,  for,  as  I  have  said,  she 
never  speaks  of  Europe  as  if  she  were  really  here,  but 
always  as  if  she  were  back  in  America.  "  Can't  you 
tell  us  something  about  the  South  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  said  ;  "  I  had  no  end  of  adventures 
when  I  was  geologizing  in  Kentucky." 

"  Not  in  Bourbon  County,  I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Kav 
enel,  smiling. 

"  No,  indeed,  it  was  farther  east,  where  they  prefer 
253 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


not  to  pay  any  tax  to  Uncle  Sam.  It  was  in  the  moon 
shine  counties  along  the  Virginia  border." 

"  Now,  you  're  talking  American,  and  I  don't  under 
stand  a  word  of  it,"  interrupted  England. 

"  Then  I  '11  translate,"  said  I,  good-naturedly.  "  You 
must  know  that  at  home  we  have  a  federal  tax  on 
whiskey  —  called  most  appropriately  internal  revenue 
—  and  every  distillery  must  be  licensed  by  the  central 
government.  But  up  in  the  mountains  of  Kentucky, 
the  doctrine  of  states'  rights  is  very  strong,  and  the 
people,  even  some  of  the  best  citizens,  object  to  pay 
ing  a  federal  tax.  So  they  do  their  distilling  secretly, 
usually  of  moonlight  nights,  and  that 's  the  way  they 
get  the  name  of  moonshiners." 

"  You  let  them  off  rather  gently,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Ravenel. 

"  You  're  a  very  remarkable  people,"  said  England, 
who  showed  the  fighting  blood  in  her  by  being  ex 
tremely  fond  of  adventures,  "just  tell  us  all  about 
it."  She  settled  herself  back  in  her  armchair  as  if 
she  expected  me  to  talk  for  at  least  an  hour.  Perhaps 
the  movement  was  prompted  by  experience. 

44  Well,"  said  I,  44  to  make  a  long  story  short "  — 

44  No,  make  it  long,"  said  England  emphatically. 

So  I  began  again.  "  Well,  to  make  a  short  story 
long,  directly  after  graduation  I  went  out  to  Ken 
tucky  to  make  a  geological  report  on  some  two  hun 
dred  thousand  acres  of  coal  land  owned  by  a  couple 
of  Philadelphia  gentlemen,"  — 

"  That  would  be  one  hundred  thousand  acres  apiece," 
254 


INDOORS 


said  Scotland,  whose  mathematical  proclivities  I  have 
already  remarked. 

—  "I  was  armed  with  a  sheepskin,  a  geological  ham 
mer,  a  compass,  a  notebook,  a  lead  pencil,  and  a  pro 
found  amount  of  ignorance  "  — 

"  Omit  the  obvious  parts,"  suggested  Margaret. 

— "  The  land  was  distributed  all  over  the  moun 
tains  in  tracts  varying  from  forty  or  fifty  acres  up  to 
enormous  surveys  of  thirty-five  thousand  acres.  I  had 
my  headquarters  at  Whitesburg,  and  went  out  into 
the  surrounding  districts,  examining  the  tracts  one  by 
one.  It  was  a  rough  country,  and  I  traveled  entirely 
on  horseback.  Strangers  were  rare  in  the  mountains 
at  that  time,  and  I  soon  found  myself  a  very  well- 
known  person.  I  was  usually  dubbed  '  the  mineral 
man,'  however,  and  very  seldom  got  the  name  of  my 
ancestors.  My  guide,  Adams,  who  was  as  tall  and 
almost  as  slender  as  myself,  rode  a  small  black  mule. 
He  looked  like  Sancho  Panza  hunting  for  adventures. 
When  I  first  got  to  Whitesburg,  I  asked  Adams  if  it 
was  a  pretty  orderly  neighborhood,  and  he  answered, 
4  Wai,  thar  's  right  smart  killin'  goin'  on.'  " 

"  Was  he  what  you  call  a  moonshiner  ?  "  asked  the 
Chatelaine. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  and  a  very  thorough  one.  It  was 
sometimes  inconvenient,  especially  when  I  went  over 
into  the  valley  where  the  deputy  sheriff  lived.  I 
always  had  to  go  alone,  for  the  deputy  had  a  warrant 
for  Adams's  arrest,  and  as  Adams  swore  he  'd  never 
be  taken,  it  would  have  meant  a  sharp  skirmish,  and 

255 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


perhaps  something  unpleasant.  On  one  such  occasion 
I  had  been  obliged  to  stop  at  a  wretched  cabin  over 
night.  I  got  away  in  the  morning  just  as  early  as  I 
possibly  could.  I  had  to  cross  from  that  valley  to 
another,  over  a  narrow  mountain  trail.  It  was  a  sweet 
morning.  The  sun  was  shining  bright  and  clear,  and 
the  air  had  a  little  touch  of  frost  in  it.  It  must  have 
been  the  latter  part  of  October.  I  enjoyed  my  lonely 
ride  immensely.  I  was  glad  my  moonshiner  guide  and 
his  black  mule  had  to  be  elsewhere  "  — 

"  Were  n't  you  afraid  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ravenel. 

"  Law,  honey,  Marsa  John  don'  have  no  'casion  to 
be  afeard  when  the  rest  of  us  is  skeery,"  said  Aunt 
Viney,  impressively.  She  was  over  in  a  dark  corner 
of  the  room  where  the  whites  of  her  eyes  and  her 
white  hair  were  the  most  visible  parts  of  her,  and  the 
effect,  as  you  can  imagine,  was  certainly  striking.  It 
was  almost  as  if  a  sibyl  had  spoken.  The  Chatelaine 
is  not  accustomed  to  negroes,  and  looked  absolutely 
startled.  For  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  help  laugh 
ing.  I  answered,  as  soon  as  I  could,  — 

"  There  was  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  I  crossed  the 
saddle  of  the  mountain  and  was  descending  on  the 
other  side  when  I  came  to  a  rough  cabin  and  a  rougher 
clearing.  The  trail  ran  along  one  side  of  the  fence. 
An  old  man  was  digging  potatoes  some  distance  away 
from  the  fence.  I  called  out, '  Howdy,'  and  this,"  said 
I,  turning  to  England,  "  is  the  mountain  contraction 
for  '  How  do  you  do.'  He  called  back,  4  Howdy,'  and 
added  cheerfully,  'Wai,  they  ain't  killed  you  yit?' 

256 


INDOORS 


I  pulled  up  my  horse, '  Little  Nell '  I  called  her,  and 
demanded  quickly,  '  What  do  you  mean  ? '  for  the 
salutation  was  a  bit  jarring,  even  to  an  idealist.  The 
old  man  put  up  his  hand  so  as  to  shade  his  eyes  from 
the  sun,  and  took  a  good  look  at  me.  4  Oh,'  said  he, 
apologetically,  '  you  be  the  mineral  man,  be  n't  you  ? 
I  mistook  you  fur  one  o'  them  surveyor  fellers,  and 
they  allowed  they  was  going  to  kill  them.  But  you 
be  all  right.'  It  seems  that  many  of  the  mountaineers 
are  what  we  call  4  squatters,'  and  have  no  deeds  to  their 
farms.  Consequently  when  the  holders  of  the  govern 
ment  surveys  come  along  to  claim  their  property,  the 
mountaineers  have  a  way  of  shooting  the  surveyors  in 
the  back  by  way  of  preventing  the  lines  from  being 
run  out.  My  greatest  danger,  in  fact  my  only  danger, 
was  in  being  mistaken  for  somebody  else." 

"  That  would  have  been  little  comfort  to  your  peo 
ple,  Mr.  Percyfield,  if  you  had  got  shot,"  said  Ireland. 
"  Were  you  often  mistaken  for  somebody  else  ?  " 

"  Several  times." 

"  Go  right  on  and  tell  us  about  it,"  said  England. 

"  One  day  I  had  a  friend  of  mine  down  from  Phil 
adelphia,  and  a  German  geologist  up  from  Birmingham. 
With  Adams,  there  were  four  of  us,  and  as  we  were 
all  mounted,  we  made  quite  an  impressive  party.  We 
were  going  to  see  some  coal  deposits  over  on  a  farm 
on  Black  Mountain.  There  was  a  level  stretch  of 
road  just  before  we  got  to  the  cabin,  and  we  took  ad 
vantage  of  it  to  have  a  good  gallop.  We  naturally 
made  considerable  clatter.  It  never  occurred  to  me 

257 


JOHN  PEKCYFIELD 


that  we  might  frighten  the  people  in  the  cabin.  We 
drew  rein  in  front  of  the  cabin,  and  Adams  called 
out  '  Hello ! '  for  we  wanted  to  see  the  owner  of  the 
farm  and  ask  him  some  questions.  A  woman  came  to 
the  door.  '  Where  's  your  old  man  ? '  The  woman 
was  trembling,  but  she  answered  with  a  brave  lie, 
4  He  's  over  yander  in  the  field,'  pointing  to  a  distant 
clearing  on  the  side  of  the  mountain.  Adams  laughed 
good-naturedly.  4  Don't  you  know  me,  Mirandy  ? 
Fetch  out  your  old  man.  We  ain't  a-goin'  to  hurt 
him.'  When  the  woman  recognized  Adams,  she  gave 
a  little  nervous  laugh  of  relief  that  was  half  a  sob,  and 
brought  out  her  husband  from  under  the  bed.  They 
took  us  for  revenue  officers,  you  see,  and  the  old  man 
was  a  noted  moonshiner." 

44  What  a  curious  country,"  said  Ireland.  "  I  should 
have  thought  that  your  evicted  peasantry  would  have 
made  some  demonstration  against  you  as  a  representa 
tive  of  the  landlords." 

44  But  they  were  n't  evicted,"  said  I,  amused  at  this 
application  of  Irish  terms  to  free  America.  "And 
they  were  n't  peasants,  and  there  were  no  landlords;  at 
least  they  got  no  rents.  It  was  an  open  question  as  to 
who  owned  the  land.  There  was  one  little  corner  down 
in  Tennessee  that  a  surveyor  told  me  to  his  positive 
knowledge  was  covered  by  thirteen  different  claims." 

44  But  did  it  never  get  you  into  trouble  ?  "  persisted 
Ireland,  who  had  evidently  heard  nothing  of  the  story 
of  Mirandy,  and  had  been  dwelling  on  some  experi 
ences  of  her  own  in  the  matter  of  Irish  evictions. 

258 


INDOORS 


"Not  exactly  trouble,"  I  answered.  "I  did  have 
one  funny  experience,  though.  I  was  over  on  the  Poor 
Fork  of  the  Cumberland  River,  looking  at  some  land 
that  my  Philadelphia  men  did  not  own,  but  wanted  to 
buy.  And  well  they  might,  for  it  had  a  seam  of 
cannel  coal  on  it  ten  feet  thick.  Adams  did  not  know 
the  country  very  well,  and  so  we  had  always  to  get 
one  of  the  mountaineers  to  go  with  us.  That  par 
ticular  day  we  could  get  no  one,  as  there  was  to  be 
speaking  at  the  schoolhouse  over  at  the  mouth  of 
Clover  Field  Creek.  A  certain  Mr.  White  was  very 
anxious  to  go  to  Congress,  and  proposed  to  show  the 
people  why  they  ought  to  send  him.  As  I  could  do 
little  else,  and  had  some  curiosity  to  see  the  gather 
ing,  I  went  over  with  the  rest.  The  crowd  was  so 
large  that  the  schoolhouse  would  not  hold  it  all,  and 
it  was  decided  to  have  the  meeting  out  doors  under 
the  trees.  Benches  were  brought  out  from  the  school- 
house,  and  as  many  as  could  sat  down.  The  rest  of 
us  stood  in  groups  on  the  outskirts  of  the  circle. 
Being  so  tall,  and  in  different  dress  from  the  others, 
I  made  rather  a  prominent  figure.  Mr.  White  was  a 
clever  speaker.  He  did  what  I  had  supposed  no  one 
could  do  successfully,  —  he  talked  both  water  and  whis 
key.  As  we  say  in  America,  he  carried  a  bucket  on  each 
shoulder,  and  he  did  n't  spill  a  drop  out  of  either 
bucket.  The  temperance  people  were  delighted  and 
the  liquor  people  were  delighted.  Then  Mr.  White 
caught  sight  of  me,  and  his  eloquence  took  a  new 
turn.  '  If  you  send  me  to  Congress,'  he  went  on  im~ 

259 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


pressively,  '  I  '11  get  appropriation  bills  passed,  and 
I  '11  fix  up  this  hyar  Pore  Fork  of  the  Cumberland 
River,'  —  it  was  about  a  foot  deep  at  the  time  and 
full  of  rocks,  — '  so  that  when  the  floods  of  heaven 
come,  you  can  float  out  your  own  coal  and  iron  and 
timber  and  dried  apples  and  geese  feathers  and  'sang, 
and  not  be  selling  your  lands  for  a  song  to  these  for 
eigners.'  Here  all  the  people  turned  and  looked  dis 
approvingly  at  me.  I  felt  mighty  queer." 

"  And  did  they  send  him  to  Congress  ?  "  asked  the 
practical  England.  "  And  did  he  do  what  he  said  he 
would?" 

"  Well,  he  went  to  Congress,  and  did  what  he  could, 
I  suppose.  But  the  Poor  Fork  of  the  Cumberland 
continues  to  work  after  its  own  fashion,  removing  the 
mountains  and  casting  them  into  the  sea,  as  it  is  said 
that  faith  can,  in  very  small  grains  at  a  time,  and 
never  by  the  boat  load." 

"  You  're  a  very  remarkable  people,"  reiterated 
England. 

"  However,  that  was  not  what  I  started  out  to  tell 
you.  I  meant  to  tell  you  how  Adams  and  I  once  ran 
into  the  midst  of  a  regular  Kentucky  family  feud.  It 
was  the  strangest  adventure  ever  I  had,  and  in  some 
respects,  the  funniest,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  almost 
lost  my  life"  — 

"  You  almost  lost  your  life  !  "  said  Margaret,  with 
such  dramatic  horror  that  every  one  turned  and  looked 
at  her.  She  added  more  quietly,  "  I  don't  call  that 
at  all  funny." 

260 


INDOORS 


"  No ;  that  part  was  n't  funny,"  I  said  gravely. 
"  But  the  rest  was."  Then  I  turned  to  Mrs.  Ravenel 
and  asked,  "  Would  it  make  you  nervous  to  hear  it  ?  " 

"  I  think  not,"  she  answered,  "  since  you  evidently 
got  out  of  the  adventure  all  right.  Pray  go  on." 

"  You  know  something  about  the  traditional  family 
feuds  in  Kentucky?  They  are  usually  a  very  serious 
matter.  It  is  hard  to  know  just  how  they  start.  Some 
injury  is  done,  or  is  thought  to  be  done,  to  a  certain 
family  by  some  member  of  another  family,  and  then 
the  injured  family  never  rests  until  it  has  had  satis 
factory  revenge.  This  usually  takes  the  form  of  pro 
voking  a  quarrel,  and  so  killing  some  member  of  the 
transgressing  family.  Then  come  reprisals  on  the  other 
side,  and  so  on  to  the  third  and  fourth  generations. 
Sometimes  the  quarrel  smoulders  for  ten,  twelve,  even 
fifteen  years,  only  to  break  out  at  last  in  some  horrid 
act  of  violence.  Eastern  Kentucky,  where  I  was  at 
work,  was  particularly  noted  for  these  feuds.  There 
was  a  notoriously  bad  one  on  just  at  that  time,  the 
famous  Johnston-Howard  feud.  One  of  the  Johnston 
boys  had  killed  old  man  Howard  on  some  very  slight 
provocation,  and  the  Howards  and  their  friends  had 
banded  together  and  sworn  that  they  would  not  rest 
until  they  had  the  life  of  some  one  of  the  Johnstons. 
The  Johnston  and  the  Howard  plantations  were  both 
over  on  Yellow  Creek,  the  one  down  at  the  Forks,  and 
the  other  somewhat  off  the  main  stream,  in  what  was 
known  as  Plumtree  Hollow.  For  a  time,  therefore, 
the  valley  was  the  scene  of  a  smouldering  civil  war. 

261 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


There  were  a  few  neutral  families,  but  nearly  every 
plantation,  through  family  connections  and  the  like, 
sided  with  either  the  Johnstons  or  the  Howards.  At 
first  the  matter  weighed  very  heavily  on  my  own 
spirits,  but  of  course  in  a  wholly  impersonal  way.  I 
was  not  required  to  take  sides,  and  could  go  with  per 
fect  safety  directly  from  one  family  to  the  other.  After 
a  time,  however,  I  ceased  to  think  about  the  feud,  for 
I  was  getting  more  and  more  deeply  interested  in  my 
geological  work,  and  was  finding  the  very  simple  key 
to  the  structure  of  the  whole  Eastern  Kentucky  coal 
field.  You  can't  imagine  how  exciting  it  is  to  work 
out  the  geology  of  an  entirely  new  district.  I  was  in 
the  field  all  the  time  now,  and  had  Adams  either  dig 
ging  or  traveling,  from  morning  to  night.  It  was 
early  in  November,  and  we  had  to  be  very  active  to 
get  anything  accomplished,  for  the  days  were  so  short. 
I  had  occasion  to  go  over  to  Yellow  Creek.  There  was 
a  tract  of  land  near  the  head  of  the  valley  whose  turn 
for  examination  had  now  come,  and  in  addition  there 
were  several  general  observations  that  I  wanted  to 
make.  Even  then  I  forgot  the  feud. 

"  We  got  to  the  head  of  the  valley  early  one  after 
noon.  It  was  nasty  weather,  cold  and  drizzly,  and  I 
ought  not  to  have  been  out  in  it,  but  I  was  so  full  of 
enthusiasm  that  I  stuck  to  my  work  until  nearly  four 
o'clock.  Then  I  realized  that  I  was  pretty  wet  and 
cold,  and  that  we  ought  to  be  seeking  shelter  for 
the  night.  So  I  told  Adams  to  put  up  his  pick  and 
untie  Little  Nell  and  the  black  mule,  and  we  would  go 

262 


INDOORS 


down  the  valley  in  search  of  a  stopping  place.  In  a 
very  few  moments,  we  were  both  mounted  and  picking 
our  way  down  the  valley.  The  roads  were  so  rough 
that  we  had  to  walk  our  animals  practically  all  the 
way.  The  first  house  we  came  to  was  very  fine  for 
those  parts.  It  must  have  had  at  least  four  rooms  in 
it,  and  it  was  built  of  boards  in  place  of  the  cus 
tomary  logs.  We  rode  up  to  the  house  full  of  plea 
sant  anticipations  of  good  shelter  and  fare.  We  both 
called  out  a  lusty  4  Hello ! '  and  in  answer  to  it  an 
old  man  came  out  of  the  house.  I  said,  * Howdy,' 
and  then  after  the  accepted  phraseology  of  the  moun 
tains,  asked  if  we  could  'get  to  stop'  overnight 
with  him.  He  said  he  reckoned  we  could  n't,  for  his 
*  daughter  was  mighty  sick,  plum  nigh  onto  dyin',  an' 
they  was  all  purty  much  upset.'  I  was  full  of  sym 
pathy.  It  seemed  a  dreadful  thing  to  have  that  young 
girl  so  ill  out  there  in  the  wilderness,  and  so  far  from 
a  doctor  and  proper  medicines.  I  expressed  my  lively 
condolence.  The  old  man  received  it  cheerlessly,  and 
as  we  could  be  of  no  service,  we  rode  on  down  the  val 
ley,  not  a  little  depressed  ourselves.  I  did  not  suspect 
for  a  moment  that  the  old  man  was  lying.  The  next 
house  was  of  logs,  but  was  attractive  looking  and  quite 
surrounded  with  late  fall  flowers.  I  was  anxious  to 
stop,  for  I  had  found  that  flowers  always  meant  pretty 
decent  sort  of  people.  When  you  do  all  your  own 
work,  and  have  to  work  pretty  hard  into  the  bargain, 
it  means  something  to  have  a  good  flower  garden.  But 
Adams  said  we  could  n't  stop  there,  for  it  was  the  house 

263 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


of  the  Widow  Wright.  You  must  know  that  among 
these  rough  mountaineers  a  very  primitive  but  a  very 
strict  etiquette  prevails.  There  are  no  hotels  what 
ever,  and  the  law  of  hospitality  requires  that  any  cabin 
shall  receive  a  stranger  overnight,  provided  he  present 
himself  before  dark,  so  that  they  can  look  him  over 
well  and  see  what  sort  of  a  person  he  is,  and  provided 
there  is  no  sickness  in  the  house.  But  one  must  never 
ask  to  stop  if  the  man  of  the  house  is  away,  or  if  the 
establishment  is  that  of  a  widow,  even  though  in  both 
cases  there  are  grown-up  sons  who  could  well  act  the 
part  of  host.  Furthermore,  the  stranger  must  never 
get  off  his  horse  until  invited  to  do  so.  He  must  ride 
up  and  call  '  Hello,'  and  only  when  the  mountaineer 
says  laconically,  '  'Light,'  may  he  think  of  dismount 
ing. 

"  I  knew  some  of  these  rules,  but  I  did  not  know  how 
binding  they  were. 

"  We  rode  down  the  valley  and  into  the  gathering 
darkness.  The  cabins  were  half  a  mile,  a  mile,  even 
two  miles  apart.  It  was  rather  a  serious  matter  to 
miss  '  getting  to  stop '  at  the  cabin  you  had  calculated 
on.  In  this  case,  the  next  cabin  was  fully  two  miles 
down  the  valley,  and  by  the  time  we  got  there  it  was 
almost  pitch  dark.  The  cabin  stood  on  the  side  of  the 
mountain,  some  distance  back  from  the  road.  We 
could  just  distinguish  its  dark  outline,  and  a  faint 
gleam  of  light  coming  from  the  one  tiny  window.  We 
halted,  and  Adams  gave  the  usual  call.  The  door  of 
the  cabin  opened.  We  could  see  a  woman's  figure 

264 


INDOORS 


outlined  in  dark  silhouette  against  the  ruddy  firelight 
of  the  interior.  It  looked  very  cheery,  and  already  I 
was  feeling  more  comfortable.  But  no,  the  woman 
could  not  take  us  in.  She  was  sorry,  she  said,  but  her 
old  man  was  away  from  home.  With  that  she  closed 
the  door,  and  bolted  it,  I  dare  say,  if  there  was  such 
a  thing  as  a  bolt.  I  never  suspected  that  she,  too,  was 
lying.  The  next  cabin  was  another  good  two  miles. 
It  was  still  drizzling,  and  presently  it  grew  so  dark 
that  literally  I  could  not  see  my  horse's  head  in  front 
of  me.  The  mule  was  now  not  even  a  black  spot  on 
the  face  of  the  earth,  but  part  and  parcel  of  the  uni 
versal  void.  Adams  got  off,  and  floundered  along  as 
best  he  could  on  foot.  I  dropped  my  reins  and  simply 
let  my  horse  follow.  It  was  very  slow  traveling,  and 
as  you  can  imagine,  extremely  uncomfortable.  Finally 
I  said,  4  Adams,  the  next  cabin  we  come  to,  we  will 
not  ask  them  if  they  can  keep  us  overnight.  We 
will  simply  tie  our  horses  to  the  fence,  march  up  to 
the  cabin,  and  say  that  we  are  very  sorry  to  trouble 
them,  but  that  if  they  can  keep  us,  we  shall  be  very 
much  obliged,  for  really  we  cannot  go  a  single  step 
further.'  Adams  acquiesced,  as  he  always  did,  but 
he  ought  never  to  have  allowed  me  to  do  such  a  thing. 
We  came  near  to  paying  dear  for  it.  After  what 
seemed  an  interminable  time,  —  in  reality,  I  suppose 
it  was  a  trifle  after  eight,  —  we  reached  the  next  cabin. 
We  rode  in  perfect  silence.  We  were  cold  and  hungry 
and  wet,  and  in  no  mood  for  talking  "  — 

"  Your  tale  becomes  improbable,"  said  Margaret, 
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JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


laughing.     "You  were   never  out  of   the  mood  for 
talking." 

"  Yes,  I  was,"  I  answered  stoutly,  "  for  one  time  in 
my  life  at  least.  And  indeed  there  was  nothing  to  be 
said.  Everything  had  been  arranged  beforehand.  It 
did  not  occur  to  us  that  our  movements  might  seem 
stealthy.  I  got  out  of  my  saddle  very  softly,  for  I 
was  too  stiff  to  move  in  a  hurry.  We  tied  our  an 
imals  to  the  crazy  Virginia  fence,  took  our  saddle 
bags,  climbed  the  fence,  and  marched  up  through  the 
old  apple  orchard  to  the  cabin.  The  door  was  open, 
and  we  walked  in.  We  found  only  three  persons  in 
the  cabin,  a  glum,  depressed-looking  woman ;  a  small 
child,  howling  vigorously  and  clinging  to  the  woman's 
skirts,  and  a  decrepit,  bedridden  man,  who  was  chat 
tering  away  for  all  he  was  worth.  I  could  not  un 
derstand  a  word  that  he  said.  The  woman  gave  us 
no  greeting  whatever.  I  thought  she  was  probably 
tired,  and  perhaps  out  of  sorts  at  the  prospect  of  having 
to  get  supper  for  two  hungry  men.  I  was  sorry  for 
her,  and  should  have  retreated,  but  we  simply  had  to 
stop  some  place,  so  I  said  to  her  in  my  most  Chester- 
fieldian  manner,  '  I  'm  sorry,  madam,  to  come  in  upon 
you  at  this  late  hour,  but  if  you  can  give  us  some 
supper  and  a  bed,  I  should  count  it  a  great  favor,  for 
the  night  is  so  bad,'  —  Miss  Polyhymnia  says  I  ought 
to  say  inclement,  not  bad,  when  I  speak  of  so  irre 
sponsible  a  thing  as  the  weather,  —  '  for  the  night  is  so 
bad  and  we  are  so  wet  and  tired  and  hungry  that  we 
can  hardly  go  a  step  farther.'  I  was  a  mere  youngster 

266 


INDOORS 


at  the  time,  for  I  graduated,  you  know,  when  I  was 
twenty,  and  as  it  was  the  following  autumn,  I  still  had 
what  Charlotte  called  my  cherubic  smile,  so  that  I 
knew  in  the  end,  the  woman  would  give  in  "  — 

"  What  a  young  scamp  you  were,"  said  England, 
shaking  her  finger  at  me.  "Trying  to  wheedle  a 
poor  old  woman  in  that  fashion.  If  it  had  been  I,  I 
should  have  sent  you  supperless  to  the  barn." 

"  No  you  would  n't.  You  would  have  made  me  a 
cup  of  your  very  best  tea,  and  got  me  some  dainty 
slices  of  bread  and  butter,  and  some  jam,  just  as  you 
do  here  at  the  Chateau." 

"  Perhaps  I  should,"  admitted  England.  "  But  it 
would  have  been  more  than  you  deserved." 

"  I  'm  accustomed  to  that,  dear  Madame.  It 's  the 
reward  of  deserving  even  a  little,"  I  replied  gayly. 

"Please  go  on  with  your  story,"  said  Margaret. 
"  For  if  you  don't,  I  shall  have  to  take  my  mother  to 
bed  before  the  end  of  it ;  "  and  then  she  inquired  with 
mock  anxiety,  "  Has  it  any  end  ?  " 

But  I  ignore  this  reference  to  the  manner  in  which 
I  spin  my  tales,  and  go  straight  ahead :  "  Well,  the 
woman  never  did  relent,  as  far  as  her  manner  went. 
She  was  just  glum,  first,  last,  and  always,  and  the  old 
man  went  on  chattering  at  a  great  rate.  But  the 
woman  put  out  a  couple  of  chairs  and  said  in  a  snappy 
way,  as  if  it  gave  her  a  stitch  in  her  side,  '  Take  a 
chair.'  Adams  and  I  sat  down,  side  by  side,  like  two 
little  boys  at  school.  Then  the  woman  proceeded  to 
get  us  our  supper.  When  it  was  ready,  she  said  in 

267 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


the  same  economical  way,  'Fetch  up  your  chairs.' 
We  needed  no  second  bidding.  The  table  was  covered 
with  mottled  red  oil-cloth,  and  as  the  rush-bottomed 
chairs  were  entirely  too  low,  our  heads  came  only  a 
short  distance  above  the  table.  When  we  spread  out 
our  elbows  to  cut  anything  on  our  plates  we  looked, 
as  far  as  attitude  went,  precisely  like  the  little  cherubs 
in  the  Sistine  Madonna.  But  what  a  supper  it  was. 
We  had  fried  chicken,  and  eggs,  and  bacon,  and  corn- 
bread,  and  soda  biscuit,  and  china-white  butter,  and 
apple  sauce,  and  coffee  as  black  as  the  night "  —  I 
heard  Aunt  Viney  sigh.  Her  opinion  of  European 
cookery  is  not  complimentary  —  "I  am  just  running 
over  the  bill  of  fare  to  show  you  that  my  persuasive 
ways  did  tell,  for  it  took  just  one  hour  to  prepare  that 
supper.  I  was  at  pains  to  tell  the  woman  how  good 
everything  was,  and  though  she  only  grunted,  I  know 
she  was  pleased.  When  at  last  we  had  finished,  she 
took  a  candle  and  said,  '  I  '11  show  you  to  your  beds/ 
Happily  there  were  two  cabins,  and  Adams  and  I  had 
the  luxury  of  having  one  of  them  to  ourselves.  Often 
we  had  to  share  the  same  bed  in  one  corner  of  a  cabin 
already  uncomfortably  full.  I  have  slept  in  a  small 
cabin  with  thirteen  people,  three  dogs,  and  a  horrid 
kerosene  lamp,  —  kept  going  because  there  were  na 
matches  left.  I  tumbled  into  bed  at  once,  and  was 
asleep  without  the  least  ado.  But  I  woke  up  several 
times  during  the  night  to  find  Adams  either  going  out 
of  the  cabin  or  just  coming  in.  I  would  ask  sleepily, 
4  What 's  the  matter,  Adams  ? '  and  he  would  answer 

268 


INDOORS 


invariably,  '  Oh,  nothing.  I  was  just  looking  after 
the  stock.'  If  I  had  been  less  sleepy,  it  might  have 
occurred  to  me  that  this  was  very  unusual  attention. 
But  it  did  n't.  I  simply  turned  over  and  went  to 
sleep  again.  In  the  morning,  I  was  up  bright  and 
early.  It  had  cleared  off  during  the  night,  and  the 
day  was  perfect.  The  glum  woman  gave  us  our 
breakfast,  and  I  paid  her  for  our  entertainment  and 
for  the  feed  of  the  animals.  When  we  rode  away,  I 
think  she  said  4  Good-by,'  but  if  so,  it  was  the  only 
unnecessary  word  uttered  during  our  stay. 

"  It  was  a  heavenly  morning.  The  rain  had  fresh 
ened  everything  it  touched,  and  it  had  been  persistent 
enough  to  touch  about  everything  there  was.  Now, 
the  sun  was  shining  brightly  and  not  a  cloud  was  to 
be  seen.  When  we  got  some  distance  away  from  the 
cabin,  Adams  turned  to  me  and  said,  '  Did  you  notice 
anything  queer  about  that  place  ? '  '  No,'  I  an 
swered,  4 1  can't  say  that  I  did.  I  've  seen  so  much 
that  is  queer  since  I  've  been  out  here  in  the  moun 
tains  that  the  cabin  we  've  just  left  seemed  much  like 
the  rest.'  '  Well,  there  was  something  mighty  queer 
about  it,'  said  Adams,  rather  gravely  for  a  reckless 
moonshiner,  4  and  it  kept  me  plum  uneasy  the  whole 
night.  I  know  that  at  least  three  men  make  their 
home  at  that  cabin,  and  there  war  n't  nary  a  one  to 
be  found.  I  had  to  hunt  my  own  feed  for  the  stock 
and  get  on  the  best  I  could.  It  war  n't  till  this  morn 
ing  that  I  found  out  what  the  matter  was.  There  was 
a  slip  of  a  boy  that  came  within  hailing  distance  of 

269 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


the  barn.  He  was  so  plum  scary  I  thought  I  'd  never 
git  holt  on  him  nohow.  But  at  last  I  made  him 
understand  who  I  be,  and  got  to  talk  with  him  a 
spell.'  4  What  did  he  say  ? '  I  asked  eagerly,  for  by 
this  time  I  was  interested.  Adams  looked  at  me 
and  said  impressively.  4He  said  a  lot  of  things, 
when  he  once  got  over  bein'  so  skeery  and  found  his 
tongue.  For  a  fact,  me  and  you  came  plum  nigh  to 
bein'  filled  up  with  bullets  last  night.'  Adams  made 
rather  a  long  story  of  it,  but  the  gist  of  the  matter 
was  that  when  we  rode  up  to  the  cabin  the  night  be 
fore,  there  were  between  eight  and  ten  men  belonging 
to  the  Johnston  faction  inside  of  the  cabin,  and  they 
were  expecting  every  minute  some  attack  or  demon 
stration  from  the  Howards.  As  Adams  and  I  gave 
no  call  and  came  up  through  the  orchard  so  silently, 
the  men  mistook  us  for  the  Howard  party.  Every 
man  there  had  a  loaded  gun  or  revolver,  and  it  was  the 
greatest  wonder  in  the  world  that  they  didn't  open 
fire  upon  us  before  they  beat  such  a  hasty  retreat. 
But  Fate  had  willed  otherwise.  The  men  evidently 
concluded  from  the  seeming  boldness  of  the  attack 
that  we  were  in  large  numbers  and  pretty  determined. 
Every  mother's  son  of  them  took  to  the  woods  and 
spent  the  night  out,  while  we  marched  in  and  oc 
cupied  their  beds.  It  always  amuses  me  when  I 
think  that  I,  a  mere  boy  at  the  time,  and  as  peaceable 
as  they  make  them,  should  have  routed  nearly  a  dozen 
well-armed  men,  while  I  had  only  one  retainer  and 


270 


INDOORS 


not  so  much  as  a  pop-gun  between  us.  But  I  think 
I  have  never  been  in  greater  danger." 

"  What  cowards  they  were,  to  desert  the  woman  and 
child !  "  said  Margaret  scornfully. 

"  And  the  poor  old  man,"  added  Ireland  gently. 

"  It  was  n't  so  bad  as  it  seems,"  said  I.  "  They 
knew  that  the  woman  and  the  child  and  old  man  were 
perfectly  safe.  Mountain  etiquette  is  very  strong  on 
that  point,  even  in  feud  time.  The  Howards  would 
have  had  the  whole  countryside  against  them,  kinsfolk 
and  all,  if  they  had  touched  the  woman  or  child  or 
old  man.  It  is  a  law  of  the  feud  that  a  strong  man 
must  be  struck  down,  the  younger  and  stronger  the 
better,  the  one  that  the  family  can  least  afford  to  lose, 
for  the  feud  is  senseless  as  well  as  cruel.  They  were 
as  particular  in  selecting  their  victim  as  the  Israelites 
were  with  the  dumb  brutes  of  their  own  sacrifices ;  or 
for  that  matter,  as  you  imperialists  are  when  you  send 
your  young  men  into  unholy  wars  in  Africa  and  the 
Philippines." 

England  ignored  this  thrust  and  said  solemnly,  "  It 
was  a  most  providential  escape.  I  should  think  you 
would  feel  that  a  life  so  marvelously  preserved  ought 
to  be  devoted  to  missions." 

"I  do,  Madame,  but  not  for  that  reason.  The 
Power  that  carried  me  into  such  danger  was  bound  to 
get  me  out  again,  or  else  lose  my  future  services,  at 
least  here  on  earth.  Did  you  ever  think  of  that  ? 
And  did  you  ever  think  that  the  escapes  of  each  day, 


271 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


of  each  night,  are  quite  as  marvelous  ?     But  I  had 
long  before  resolved  to  be  a  missionary." 

"  Then  why  have  you  never  set  about  it?"  demanded 
England  quickly. 

"  I  have,"  said  I,  with  a  twinkle  in  my  eye.  "  Have 
I  not  been  laboring  for  six  months  or  more  to  con 
vert  you  from  your  wicked,  imperialistic  notions  ?  "  — 
and  I  added  more  seriously  —  "  And  am  I  not  going 
this  very  summer  to  London  to  see  what  the  better- 
hearted  among  your  own  countrymen  are  doing  to 
wards  saving  their  own  people  ?  And  do  I  not  return 
to  America  in  the  fall  to  throw  myself  into  the  very 
thick  of  this  social  fight  ?  Believe  me,  my  dear  Ma 
dame,  I  am  only  over  here  sharpening  my  weapons. 
The  new  gospel  of  social  democracy,  of  social  Chris 
tianity,  has  truth  back  of  it,  and  now  it  needs  liter 
ary  skill  to  carry  it  home  to  the  people  we  most 
want  to  reach,  to  the  people  of  brains  as  well  as  of 
heart.  That  is  what  I  am  working  for.  And  I  have 
been  studying  Europe  that  my  democracy  may  be 
intelligent  and  cosmopolitan.  We  must  know  what 
forces  we  have  to  contend  against.  We  must  know 
what  forces  we  have  on  our  side.  I  do  not  want  to  be 
a  doctrinaire,  the  holder  of  impossible  views.  I  want 
to  know  the  world  and  to  act  effectively.  And  do 
you  know  why  I  am  mastering  French  so  carefully  ? 
It  is  because  the  language  is  the  most  cosmopolitan  we 
have,  and  one  must  be  a  master  of  it  to  fight  the  cause 
of  internationalism.  Madame,  with  my  whole  heart  I 
am  trying  to  serve  God  by  hastening  his  kingdom." 

272 


INDOORS 


All  were  silent.  I  had  spoken  more  at  length  and 
more  seriously  than  perhaps  I  ought  to  have  done,  but 
it  was  a  profession  of  faith,  a  confession  if  you  like, 
that  I  felt  impelled  to  make. 

It  was  England  who  broke  the  silence,  "  We  might 
not  all  agree  about  details,  as  to  how  the  world  is  to 
be  saved,  Mr.  Percyfield,  but  it  is  pleasant  to  think 
that  we  are  all  seeking  a  common  end.  Each  must  do 
his  best,  as  he  sees  it,  mustn't  he?" 

Margaret  got  up  and  went  over  and  sat  down  be 
side  her  mother.  "  It  is  bedtime,  is  it  not,  mother 
mine  ?  "  she  said  affectionately.  "  Since  Mr.  Percy- 
field  was  not  shot,  we  may  sleep  well  and  have  no  bad 
dreams." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mrs.  Ravenel,  "  but  to  make 
quite  sure  about  the  sleeping  well,  I  think  that  Mr. 
Percyfield  ought  to  tell  us  one  more  story  that  is  al 
together  cheerful." 

I  felt  as  much  myself,  so  I  said,  "  Very  well,  but  a 
short  one.  Shall  it  be  of  the  South  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  answered  Mrs.  Ravenel. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,  when  I  had  on  my  famous 
seven-league  boots,  and  was  stalking  across  the  moun 
tains  of  western  North  Carolina,  I  came  to  a  sweet 
little  summer  village  called  Highlands.  It  is  in  the 
very  southwestern  corner,  near  the  South  Carolina 
border.  I  found  there  as  pretty  a  boarding-house  as 
ever  I  met  in  the  South.  It  was  kept  by  a  charming 
little  old  lady  from  Marblehead,  a  Miss  Dixie.  How 
she  ever  got  so  far  from  home,  I  was  quite  at  a  loss  to 

273 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


know,  unless  it  were  to  make  good  her  name.  How 
ever,  we  were  soon  the  best  of  friends,  for  I  went  to 
her  with  an  introduction  from  a  young  fellow,  evi 
dently  a  favorite  of  hers.  It  was  in  the  autumn  and 
there  were  only  a  few  boarders  left.  One  of  them  was 
a  Mrs.  Toland,  from  New  York.  To  say  that  any  one 
is  from  New  York  is  about  the  same  as  not  to  identify 
them.  It  is  quite  a  different  matter  when  you  say 
they  are  from  Philadelphia,  or  New  Orleans,  or  Bos 
ton.  Well,  Mrs.  Toland  had  a  list  of  one  hundred 
crazy  sentences,  anagrams  I  think  you  call  them,  and 
the  letters  of  each  sentence,  when  rearranged,  made 
the  name  of  some  popular  American  newspaper.  Mrs. 
Toland  had  worked  out  all  but  three,  and  these  she 
could  not  get,  so  one  evening  at  supper  she  distributed 
the  refractory  ones  among  three  of  us.  My  sentence  was 
4  Search,  mean  villain.'  I  am  very  stupid  about  such 
matters,  not  being  at  all  interested,  and  I  promptly 
gave  it  up.  After  supper  we  went  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and  gathered  around  the  open  fire.  Miss  Dixie 
had  a  lot  of  interesting  things,  cut  glass  that  had  been 
used  to  entertain  Lafayette  on  his  last  visit  to  Amer 
ica,  and  a  charming  little  gold  watch  with  a  bird's  nest 
done  in  colored  enamel  on  one  lid.  The  first  time  Miss 
Dixie's  father  saw  her  mother,  she  was  a  little  girl 
looking  at  a  bird's  nest,  and  the  enamel  had  been  done 
to  order  when  they  came  to  be  engaged.  And  she 
had  a  lot  of  other  things  rich  in  sentiment.  Miss 
Dixie  had  been  showing  them  to  us.  Finally,  she 
brought  out  a  couple  of  old  photographs,  daguerreo- 

274 


INDOORS 


types  they  were,  and  said  she  wanted  to  know  what 
I  thought  of  the  faces.  I  handed  them  first  to  Mrs. 
Toland,  asking  her  what  she  thought  of  them.  But 
she  gave  them  back,  saying  that  she  saw  nothing 
special  in  them.  Each  was  the  picture  of  a  lad,  per 
haps  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  old,  and  evidently  taken 
some  years  back.  I  don't  know  why  I  spoke  so  quickly 
and  so  confidently,  but  I  said  at  once  '  This  one  is 
given  to  close  thinking,  is  probably  a  good  mathe 
matician,  and  the  other  one,  I  should  say,  is  either  a 
musician  or  an  inventor.'  Miss  Dixie  was  greatly 
astonished.  c  Why,'  she  cried,  '  you  've  struck  it 
exactly.  This  one  is  a  mathematician,  and  absolutely 
nothing  else,  and  that  one  is  at  present  the  best  ama 
teur  musician  in  Boston.' ': 

"  I  believe,  Monsieur,  that  you  are  clairvoyant," 
said  the  Chatelaine. 

"Perhaps  it  was  telepathy,"  I  said,  and  went  on 
with  my  story.  "  After  that  we  settled  down  to  our 
reading.  I  remember  that  I  had  got  hold  of  Water 
Babies.  It  so  happened  that  I  had  never  read  it 
when  I  was  a  youngster,  and  I  got  so  fascinated  that 
I  read  the  whole  thing  at  one  sitting.  When  Mrs. 
Toland  went  to  bed,  she  said  to  me,  4  You  did  n't  solve 
my  anagram.'  4  No,'  said  I,  '  but  I  '11  think  about  it 
just  before  I  go  to  sleep  and  let  unconscious  cerebra 
tion  act.  I  will  give  you  the  answer  in  the  morning.' 
«  Well,  if  you  do,'  said  Mrs.  Toland,  laughing,  '  after 
your  success  with  those  photographs,  I  shall  know  for 
sure  that  you  are  a  witch '  —  she  meant  '  wizard.'  It 

275 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


was  after  midnight  when  I  finished  my  book  and  crept 
up  to  bed.  I  thought  of  that  wretched  anagram  just 
before  I  went  to  sleep,  but  I  tried  to  put  it  out  of  my 
mind,  for  the  Water  Babies  had  aroused  a  lot  of  new 
and  interesting  thoughts.  When  I  woke  the  next 
morning  the  sun  was  streaming  in  at  my  open  window. 
The  first  distinct  thought  I  had  was  '  Nashville  Amer 
ican.'  I  jumped  out  of  bed  and  scribbled  the  words 
down  on  a  bit  of  paper.  I  wrote  4  search,  mean 
villain '  under  them,  and  found  of  course  that  the 
letters  exactly  corresponded.  When  I  went  down  to 
breakfast,  I  said  triumphantly,  4  Nashville  American, 

—  good  morning,  Mrs.  Toland.'  ' 

"  And  did  it  really  come  to  you  in  the  night  ?  "  said 
England  ;  "  how  odd." 

"  Are  you  always  so  successful  with  photographs  ?  " 
asked  Margaret ;  "  I  have  a  lot  that  I  shall  have  to 
show  you." 

"  I  think  you  'd  better  not,"  I  answered.  "  Once 
when  the  musician  and  I  were  tramping  in  Tennessee, 

—  another  Southern  story,  Mrs.  Ravenel,  — we  stopped 
for  some  days  at  a  delightful  old  log  house  on  Roan 
Mountain.    There  were  two  attractive  daughters  there 
who  had  been  educated  at  the  convent  at  Hickory. 
The  family  were  Catholics.     One  evening  the  elder 
girl  got  out  her  photographs  and  showed  them  to  the 
musician  and  me.     The  photographs  were  mostly  of 
young  girls  who  had  been  with  her  at  the  convent, 
though  there  was  also  a  sprinkling  of  handsome  boys 
among  them,  as  there  ought  to  be,  of  course.    Without 

276 


INDOORS 


thinking,  I  began  to  express  my  opinion  of  the  prob 
able  characteristics  of  the  originals,  girls  and  boys 
alike.  In  a  moment,  however,  it  occurred  to  me  that 
it  was  a  decidedly  rude  proceeding  to  be  talking  to  a 
girl  about  her  friends  in  this  frank  way  and  I  hastily 
apologized.  But  the  girl  begged  me  to  go  on,  and 
foolishly  I  did,  describing  the  whole  lot  as  honestly  as 
I  could,  from  first  to  last.  She  said  I  hit  it  perfectly 
in  every  single  case.  It  was  not  a  kind  thing  to  do, 
and  I  should  never  be  willing  to  do  it  again.  Where 
the  descriptions  were  unfavorable,  they  must  have 
deepened  the  girl's  own  feeling.  But  the  next  morn 
ing  I  had  my  4  come-uppings.'  The  younger  daughter, 
inspired  by  my  success,  brought  me  a  photograph  from 
her  own  collection  and  asked  for  as  complete  a  history 
as  I  would  be  willing  to  give.  I  proceeded  at  consid 
erable  length,  and  with  much  too  great  assurance. 
When  I  finished,  the  girl  took  the  photograph  back 
and  thanked  me  very  nicely.  I  asked  if  I  had  been 
successful.  She  answered  reluctantly,  but  with  a 
smile  she  could  not  altogether  hide,  that  the  photo 
graph  was  of  her  best  friend,  and  that  I  had  said 
exactly  the  reverse  of  what  the  girl  really  was." 

The  ladies  joined  me  in  a  hearty  laugh  at  my  own 
expense,  and  the  Chatelaine  suggested  charitably  that 
perhaps  the  younger  daughter  was  mistaken,  and  that 
I  might  have  been  right  after  all.  It  was  kind  in  the 
Chatelaine,  but  I  could  lay  no  such  flattering  unction 
to  my  soul. 

Mrs.  Ravenel  thought  that  these  stories  were  cheer- 
277 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


ful  enough  to  go  to  sleep  on,  and  she  and  Margaret 
rose  to  leave  the  room.  I  opened  the  door  for  them, 
and  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Ravenel,  as  I  am  very  apt 
to  do  when  I  tell  old  ladies  good-night.  To  my  sur 
prise,  Margaret  also  offered  me  her  hand,  and  said 
laughingly,  "  I  think,  Mr.  Percyfield,  that  you  are 
very  much  safer  in  Europe  than  you  are  in  Amer 
ica." 

I  answered  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  don't  know ;  I  feel 
myself  in  great  danger." 

But  Margaret  chose  not  to  hear. 

England  was  the  last  to  leave  the  drawing-room. 
As  she  was  going  out,  she  said  to  me  rather  mis 
chievously,  "  You  know  your  Shakespeare  so  well,  Mr. 
Percyfield,  that  I  dare  say  you  remember  those  lines, 
'  She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd,  and  I 
loved  her  that  she  did  pity  them.' ' 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  I,  "  I  remember  them  very  well, 
but  I  never  liked  them.  A  man  would  much  rather 
be  loved  for  himself  than  for  his  adventures." 

"  But  don't  you  believe,"  said  England,  "  that  the 
adventures  go  to  make  the  man  ?  I  sometimes  think 
that  you  people,  who  hold  to  evolution,  deliberately 
run  into  adventures  for  the  sake  of  their  reaction, 
the  way  you  say  you  take  your  piano  playing.  That 
is  what  gives  you  men  the  greater  chance.  And  it 
seems  to  me,  Mr.  Percyfield,  that  you  have  had  even 
more  than  a  man's  share." 

England  is  a  sympathetic  soul,  in  spite  of  her 
crooked  politics. 

278 


INDOORS 


Somehow  I  found  it  difficult  that  evening  to  settle 
down  to  my  practicing.  But  finally  I  succeeded  in 
doing  what  I  always  approve  of  doing,  —  I  came  back 
into  the  present  moment,  and  then  I  played  uncom 
monly  well. 


CHAPTER  X 

MARGARET 

I  COME  now  to  the  greatest  experience  of  my  whole 
life. 

I  have  had  adventures  without  number,  as  any 
active  geologist  must.  I  have  been  in  hold-ups,  and 
in  many  other  tight  places.  I  have  been  among  the 
moonshiners  of  the  South.  I  have  traveled  far  and 
wide,  by  land  and  by  water.  I  have  had  adventures 
in  the  mining  regions  of  the  West,  so  terrible  that  I 
could  not  tell  them  to  these  gentlewomen  at  the 
Chateau,  or  indeed  bring  myself  to  repeat  them 
under  any  circumstances,  for  they  seem  more  like 
dreadful  nightmares  than  the  thing  a  man  is  called 
upon  to  bear  in  reality.  And,  thank  God!  I  have 
not  been  a  coward.  I  take  no  credit  for  this  to  my 
self.  It  is  due  entirely  to  the  training  my  mother 
and  my  grandfather  Percyfield  gave  me.  It  was  in 
deed  a  part  of  that  perfect  good  breeding  which  char 
acterized  them  both  not  to  be  afraid  of  anything.  I 
have  always  been  profoundly  thankful  that  my  family 
are  well-bred,  very  much  more  thankful  for  this  than 
for  the  accident  that  we  have  money.  I  could  get 
along  very  well  without  the  money,  for  if  I  were  put 
to  it,  I  could  always  earn  enough,  and  honorably,  to 
280 


MARGARET 


have  at  least  a  decent  living,  but  life  without  the 
simplicity  and  high  spirit  that  come  with  good  breed 
ing  would  seem  to  me  a  very  arid  desert,  a  gift  of 
more  than  doubtful  value. 

I  have  met  good  breeding  in  all  classes  of  society, 
sometimes  among  the  rich,  sometimes  among  the  poor, 
most  frequently  among  the  great  middle  classes.  It 
is  a  mistake,  though,  to  suppose  that  any  one  class 
has  a  monopoly  of  it,  either  rich  or  poor,  cultivated  or 
ignorant.  Considering  their  advantages,  I  think  that 
educated  people  are  more  deficient  than  others.  I 
have  known  college  professors  less  well-bred  by  far 
than  even  the  majority  of  the  people  they  looked  down 
upon.  Good  breeding  is  not  a  manner,  a  coat  of 
varnish  that  a  man  may  put  on  and  off  at  his  plea 
sure.  It  is  an  instinct  wrapped  up  in  the  very  tissues, 
an  instinct  with  this  motto,  —  "  All  or  nothing."  It 
cannot  be  denied  or  put  aside,  for  then  it  ceases  to  be. 
A  man  may  be  polite  or  rude,  rude  or  polite,  and  can 
keep  up  this  intermittent  fever  as  long  as  he  lives, 
though  his  politeness  will  have  an  increasing  air  of 
shabbiness  about  it,  and  to  sensitive  people  will  be 
come  in  the  end  his  most  offensive  form  of  rudeness. 
But  a  man  cannot  be  well-bred  and  ill-bred  the  same 
week,  or  the  same  month,  or  the  same  year  even. 
Good  breeding  sums  up  in  its  instinctive  attitude  all 
the  efforts  a  man  has  made  towards  perfection,  aye, 
and  all  that  his  ancestors  have  made  before  him.  It 
is  unconscious,  the  simple  acting  out  of  a  sound, 
wholesome  nature. 

281 


JOHN  PEECYFIELD 


This  is  why  I  so  much  dislike  the  creed  taught  by 
my  neighbor,  the  late  Monsieur  Jean  Calvin.  It 
seems  to  me  essentially  ill-bred,  a  species  of  salvation 
in  which  we  have  all  along  a  sneaking  desire  to  do  the 
wrong  thing,  but  manage  to  keep  up  a  semblance  of 
good,  either  through  the  grace  of  God,  or  the  hope  of 
heaven,  or  the  fear  of  the  devil.  It  is  a  shop-keeping 
scheme  from  first  to  last.  It  is  the  same  with  all 
creeds  that  make  sin  their  central  doctrine,  for  one 
has  to  believe  all  along  that  if  one  acted  out  one's 
real  nature  one  would  be  dreadfully  wicked,  and  that 
it  is  only  by  some  scheme  of  redemption  worked  out 
by  closet  theologians  who  know  as  much  about  real, 
red-blooded,  God-given  life  as  does  a  mummy,  —  that 
it  is  only  by  some  such  scheme  that  one  can  dodge  the 
enemy,  and  come  out  at  last  on  the  winning  side.  This 
seems  to  me  a  very  poor  view  of  life,  very  poor  and 
very  irreligious.  Happily  it  is  going  out  of  vogue. 
A  saner,  sweeter  religion  is  coming  to  us  from  the 
great  open  of  life.  We  are  learning  that  the  central 
fact  of  salvation  is  not  sin,  but  that  divine  goodness 
which  wells  up  in  some  measure  in  every  human  heart 
that  beats.  The  way  to  be  good  is  to  be  good,  —  not 
to  sham  goodness.  It  is  a  sincere  purification  of  the 
desires  and  instincts,  that  process  which  makes  the 
good  act  a  necessity,  the  fruit  and  flower  of  a  sound 
seed.  This  is  the  religion  of  Jesus,  and  it 's  a  thou 
sand  pities  that  it  was  ever  obscured  by  these  hypo 
critical,  bargaining,  shop-keeping  schemes  of  the  theo 
logians.  It  is  the  teaching  of  all  great  teachers.  It 

282 


MARGARET 


is  the  Pauline  doctrine  of  growing  in  grace ;  it  is  the 
beautiful  Buddhist  doctrine  of  the  Path ;  it  is  the 
Socratic  doctrine  of  the  philosophic  life;  it  is  the 
very  heart  and  core  of  the  process  of  evolution. 

Good  breeding,  then,  is  religion  done  in  terms  of 
everyday  life.  I  do  not  exaggerate  when  I  say  that 
it  is  the  most  important  thing  of  all  the  many  things 
that  are.  A  man's  breeding  is  the  measure  of  his 
social  evolution.  It  stamps  his  greater  or  less  kinship 
to  the  gods. 

My  mother  did  not  formulate  her  beliefs,  but  she 
was  as  true  to  the  right  as  is  the  compass-needle  to 
the  pole.  She  simply  would  not  allow  either  Char 
lotte  or  me  to  be  afraid  of  anything.  And  this 
showed  in  everything  that  she  did.  She  was  a  very 
daring  horsewoman,  and  rode  the  most  spirited  horses. 
Less  well-poised  persons  called  her  reckless,  but  that 
she  never  was,  for  her  spirit  dominated  every  horse  that 
ever  she  rode  and  made  it  subject  to  her  will.  You 
may  have  noticed  that  affairs  have  a  varying  degree  of 
danger  according  to  the  spirit  with  which  we  meet 
them.  Many  of  the  things  my  mother  did  would  have 
been  dangerous  for  less  well-bred  women,  but  were 
perfectly  safe  for  her.  She  carried  out  the  same  prin 
ciple  in  her  treatment  of  Charlotte  and  me,  and  even 
of  our  little  friends.  One  day  a  lady  who  lived  oppo 
site  to  us  in  St.  Charles  Street,  in  one  of  those  less  tidy 
places  that  I  have  mentioned,  rushed  over  to  tell  my 
mother  that  Peyton  and  I  were  playing  on  the  front 
roof.  My  mother  listened  calmly  and  said  in  all  seri- 

283 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


ousness,  "  If  it  makes  you  nervous,  I  will  have  them 
play  on  the  back  roof." 

My  mother  had  me  put  in  the  saddle  out  at  Up 
lands  when  I  was  such  a  little  boy  that  the  horse 
seemed  to  me  an  elephant,  a  mastodon,  a  very  monster 
in  point  of  size,  and  I  cried  out  in  fear,  and  was  like 
to  have  fallen  off.  But  my  mother  walked  along  by 
my  side,  and  chided  me  gently  and  lovingly,  telling  me 
that  little  boys  never  cried.  Then  she  rode  with  me, 
and  gave  me  something  of  her  own  high  spirit.  I 
think  it  was  this  perfect  fearlessness  that  made  such 
a  strong  bond  of  union  between  my  mother  and  my 
grandfather  Percyfield.  I  owe  it  to  them  that  I  have 
not  been  a  coward. 

And  so  I  pass  on  to  my  great  adventure. 

Springtime  at  the  Chateau  was  so  full  of  immediate 
happiness  that  I  should  have  liked  it  to  go  on  forever. 
Of  course  I  knew  in  some  corner  of  the  thinking  part 
of  me  that  it  could  not  last  always.  I  knew  that 
some  time  my  enchanted  castle  would  become  again  a 
thing  of  mere  wood  and  stone,  the  plain  Chateau  de 
Beau-Kivage,  as  the  tax-gatherer  has  it  on  his  books. 
I  knew  that  our  happy  circle  must  some  time  be 
broken.  But  for  the  time  these  facts  did  not  press 
in  upon  me.  I  lived  the  highest  moral  life  of  which  a 
man  is  capable,  for  I  lived  absolutely  in  the  present  mo 
ment,  and  made  it  as  sweet  and  beautiful  as  possible. 
The  past  did  not  comfort  me  ;  the  future  did  not  allure 
me  ;  it  was  the  present  that  satisfied  me.  And  when 
a  man  can  say  that,  he  has  tasted  happiness.  I  had 

284 


MARGARET 


given  up  the  tiresome,  stupid  habit  of  forever  analyz 
ing  my  own  feelings.  I  no  longer  kept  asking  myself 
whether  or  not  I  loved  Margaret.  I  knew  that  every 
moment  when  I  was  not  either  working  or  sleeping  I 
wanted  to  be  with  her.  I  did  not  try  to  imagine  what 
my  life  would  be  if  she  were  taken  out  of  it.  If  I  had, 
I  should  probably  have  recoiled  from  it  as  from  an 
abyss.  I  took  the  sweet  days  just  as  they  came,  quite 
as  a  child  would,  save  that  I  was  free  from  a  child's 
fears,  and  had  the  man's  larger  capacity  for  delight. 

It  was  in  the  night-time  that  the  revelation  came 
to  me.  I  was  wakened  by  my  old  shadow  friend, 
the  duke  of  Savoy.  He  was  no  longer  dressed  in  the 
plaid  of  the  huntsman,  or  the  sombre  velvet  of  the 
statesman.  He  was  attired  in  what  might  have  been 
his  bridal  finery :  a  gay  costume  of  pink  and  white 
satin.  He  made  a  very  brave  figure ;  and  in  his  eye 
was  such  a  look  of  tender  happiness  that  I  sprang  out 
of  bed,  and  moved  towards  him.  It  seemed  as  if  a 
magnet  were  pulling  me.  But  it  was  a  piece  of  mis 
taken  enthusiasm.  It  lost  me  the  duke,  and  brought 
me  in  his  stead  only  a  patch  of  moonlight  on  the  clean, 
scoured  floor.  It  was  myself  who  was  standing  there 
in  place  of  the  duke.  For  the  sheen  of  satin  I  found 
a  tissue  of  pale  moonbeams.  But  I  did  not  resent  the 
duke's  visit,  and  his  having  wakened  me  from  a  sound 
slumber.  I  was  conscious  of  a  pleasant  excitement.  I 
did  not  go  back  to  bed,  for  I  was  too  thoroughly  wide 
awake  to  think  of  sleeping.  I  drew  my  large  steamel 
shawl  around  me  and  sat  down  by  the  open  window. 

285 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


I  have  always  been  very  sensitive  to  the  moonlight. 
Charlotte  says  I  must  never  tell  that  to  a  stranger,  or 
he  might  tap  his  forehead  significantly.  It  was  gra 
cious  of  her  to  say  4  to  a  stranger/ 

The  world  that  spread  itself  out  before  my  great 
south  window  was  almost  as  shadowy  as  the  duke  him 
self.  All  the  daytime  features  were  there,  but  in  the 
moonlight  they  were  unreal  and  dream-like.  There  was 
no  wind,  and  consequently  no  movement.  It  looked 
like  the  photograph  of  a  silent,  deserted  world.  The 
hush  was  so  profound  that  one  could  almost  hear  it. 
The  garden  attracted  me  the  most.  Being  ordinarily  so 
familiar,  the  deep  shadows  under  the  trees  and  back  of 
the  bushes  clothed  it  in  additional  mystery.  It  was 
natural  to  look  for  Margaret,  for  I  had  drawn  the 
chair  to  the  window  for  that  very  purpose.  I  could 
see  nothing  of  her.  The  garden  was  an  untenanted 
Eden.  I  called  very  softly,  not  choosing  my  words, 
but  letting  them  come  as  they  would. 

"  Margaret,  my  love ;  Margaret,  my  own  dear 
love!" 

There  was  no  answer  from  the  garden.  Nothing 
stirred.  The  moonbeams  silvered  everything,  and 
there  was  the  silence  of  the  fifth  day  of  creation. 

But  in  my  heart  there  was  an  answer  that  came 
like  the  onrushing  of  a  mighty  flood,  musical  as  a 
thousand  waters,  as  the  music  of  a  thousand  tinkling 
fountains,  but  impetuous,  irresistible,  overwhelming. 
It  was  the  flood  of  a  great  knowledge,  the  knowledge 
of  my  love  for  Margaret,  and  it  enveloped  me  com- 

286 


MARGARET 


pletely.  I  knew  then  that  I  loved  Margaret,  loved 
her  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul  and  body.  I  knelt 
down  at  the  open  window.  I  felt  consecrated,  up 
lifted.  The  breath  of  a  new  life  swept  over  my  spirit. 
I  loved  Margaret  more  than  I  had  supposed  that  one 
human  being  could  love  another.  It  was  no  longer 
the  shadow  woman  that  I  loved,  no  longer  even  the 
little  Margaret  with  her  great  brown  eyes  and  chest 
nut  curls  and  oval  face.  It  was  this  dear  comrade  of 
the  present  moment,  this  more  than  radiant  spirit,  this 
superb  woman,  with  firm,  earth-planted  feet  and  heart 
that  reached  to  heaven,  this  woman  who  had  come  so 
quietly  and  so  gently  into  my  life,  and  had  given  it 
dimensions  such  as  I  had  never  known  before.  This  it 
was  that  I  loved. 

I  stretched  my  hands  into  the  night.  From  the  in 
visible  I  would  have  gathered  Margaret  and  encircled 
her  with  my  strong  arms  and  drawn  her  to  myself.  I 
did  not  know  that  I  could  love  with  this  devouring 
passion,  this  hunger  to  possess. 

I  looked  out  infco  space.  It  was  a  fair  universe 
that  lay  before  me,  bathed  in  the  pure  colorless  moon 
light.  I  thanked  the  Lord  of  Creation  for  this  intoxi 
cating  gift  of  life  and  love.  I  thanked  him  that  he 
had  made  us  men  and  women  that  we  might  love  some 
thing  more  beautiful  and  more  wonderful  than  our 
selves,  and  be  each  to  the  other  a  revelation  and  a 
delight.  When  at  last  I  went  back  to  bed,  it  was  a 
different  man,  for  in  my  heart  was  shining  the  white 
ness  of  a  great  light. 

287 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


I  could  not  stay  in  bed.  I  felt  that  I  must  go  to 
some  spot  that  Margaret  had  touched. 

I  got  up,  and  in  the  moonlight  took  my  cold,  refresh 
ing  bath.  Everything  was  so  white  and  unreal  that  I 
seemed  to  be  bathing  a  marble  statue,  but  I  knew  that 
under  the  white  limbs  the  blood  was  running  hot  and 
red,  and  under  the  marble  chest  a  heart  was  beating 
high  with  hope.  I  dressed  quickly  and  went  down  into 
the  garden.  I  walked  between  the  rows  of  poplars 
where  Margaret  and  I  had  so  often  walked.  I  sat  on 
the  chairs  and  benches  that  I  knew  she  had  sat  upon. 
Each  familiar  spot  gave  me  a  sense  of  comfort,  a  touch 
of  her  presence. 

Then  I  went  around  the  Chateau  along  the  main 
building  to  the  north  tower  where  I  knew  that  Mar 
garet  slept.  Her  window  was  open.  It  seemed  to 
bring  her  nearer  to  me  to  feel  the  open  window  and 
to  fancy  that  the  same  sweet  air  that  was  caressing  her 
forehead  was  also  touching  mine.  There  is  a  small 
iron  balcony  at  her  window.  I  would  have  given  any 
thing  that  I  possess  to  have  had  her  come  for  a  mo 
ment  out  on  the  balcony,  that  I  might  have  seen  her 
alive,  moving,  breathing,  seen  her  with  these  new  eyes 
of  love.  I  should  not  have  spoken  or  stirred  a  muscle. 
I  should  have  been  content  to  look. 

But  I  could  not  make  her  come.  I  could  only 
image  her  there  in  the  white  dimity  gown  that  she 
had  worn  the  night  before,  and  with  that  content  my 
self  as  best  I  could. 

Then  I  went  back  to  the  more  familiar  parts  of  the 
288 


MAKGARET 


garden,  and  made  my  way  through  the  dripping  bushes 
to  the  duke's  summer  house.  I  sat  there  and  watched 
the  coming  of  the  day.  First,  it  was  in  the  blue  vault 
above  me,  paling  the  moon  and  stars.  Then  it 
touched  the  top  of  the  Juras  with  rosy  light,  and  came 
gently  slipping  down  the  mountain  side,  waking  the 
sleeping  villages  and  towns,  and  turning  their  stone 
work  into  walls  of  jasper.  Finally  it  touched  the  blue 
waters  of  the  Lake,  and  bathed  our  own  beautiful  gar 
den  in  its  warm,  yellow  light,  —  the  new-born  day 
had  come.  I  was  deeply  moved  by  this  renewal  of 
life  on  all  sides  of  me,  for  I  had  a  part  in  it  that  I 
had  never  had  before.  In  my  own  heart  was  the 
breath  of  a  new  life. 

I  drank  morning  coffee  with  the  Chatelaine.  She 
was  surprised  to  see  me  up  so  early.  I  told  her  that 
I  had  been  watching  the  birth  of  a  new  day. 

I  knew  it  was  not  worth  while  to  wait  in  the  salle 
a  manger  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Margaret,  for  she 
always  had  her  breakfast  with  her  mother  in  their 
rooms.  Ordinarily  I  should  not  see  Margaret  until 
the  luncheon  at  twelve,  unless  I  had  the  good  fortune 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  in  the  garden.  It  was  quite 
impossible  for  me  to  go  to  work  without  seeing  her, 
and  I  did  not  attempt  anything  so  foolish.  I  went 
downstairs  and  around  the  Chateau  to  the  north 
tower,  as  I  had  done  in  the  moonlight.  It  was  so  fine 
a  morning  that  I  had  hoped  Margaret  might  be  on 
the  balcony.  But  she  was  not  in  sight,  and  so  I 
called  up  to  her,  "  Good-morning,  Margaret,  the  top 

289 


JOHN  PEKCYFIELD 


of  the  morning  to  you."  I  had  always  been  calling 
her  "  Miss  llavenel  "  before,  and  the  "  Margaret " 
slipped  out  before  I  thought,  but,  for  the  life  of  me,  I 
could  not  be  sorry. 

I  heard  her  cheery  voice,  before  I  saw  her,  "  Good- 
morning,  loiterer,  good  hunting  to  you,"  —  this  was 
her  way  of  speeding  my  work.  She  was  on  the  balcony 
for  only  a  moment,  and  in  the  white  dimity  gown 
looked  as  sweet  and  beautiful  as  the  morning  itself. 
"  A  heavenly  day,  Mr.  Scribe ;  be  sure  and  put  it  in 
your  sketches."  Then  she  was  gone. 

I  had  to  live  on  that  small  glimpse  of  her  the  whole 
morning,  for  she  did  not  go  into  the  garden  at  all.  I 
watched  it  closely.  I  found  afterwards  that  she  and 
the  Chatelaine  had  gone  into  Geneva  on  their  wheels 
to  attend  to  some  errands  for  Mrs.  Ravenel.  I  have 
but  one  fault  to  find  with  my  south  tower.  It  com 
mands  only  the  garden.  It  ought  to  command  the 
courtyard  as  well.  I  cannot  say  that  I  did  very  much 
work  that  morning.  I  did  make  some  attempt  at 
writing,  but  somehow  my  pen  seemed  inclined  to  form 
but  one  word  and  that  was  "  Margaret."  Nor  did  I 
think.  I  could  do  nothing  but  sit  at  the  open  window, 
and  give  myself  up  to  the  wonder  of  my  new  pos 
session. 

We  all  gathered  at  luncheon.  I  could  no  longer 
meet  Margaret  with  the  old  unconsciousness,  for  my 
heart  was  bubbling  over  in  all  that  I  did,  and  to  look 
at  her  and  not  show  it  was  just  impossible.  So  I  had 
to  look  away,  or  catch  swift  stolen  glimpses.  But  my 

290 


MARGARET 


ears  were  tinder  no  such  necessity.  They  could  drink 
in  every  word  she  said,  every  tone  of  her  voice,  and  to 
them  it  was  all  very  sweet  music. 

I  am  sure  that  Margaret  instinctively  noticed  the 
difference  and  guessed  the  meaning  of  it.  Probably 
she  knew  that  morning,  when  I  called  up  to  her 
balcony.  It  was  not  a  thing  that  I  could  hide  very 
well  if  I  had  wanted  to.  There  was  no  need  of  speech. 
I  had  only  to  wait  for  some  sign  that  my  love  had 
been  accepted.  All  day  long  it  was  singing  in  my 
heart,  like  some  sky-intoxicated  lark,  and  all  night 
long  it  nestled  on  my  pillow  like  some  sweet,  brood 
ing  presence.  And  yet  I  wanted  to  speak.  I  wanted 
the  joy  of  taking  Margaret's  hand  in  mine  and  tell 
ing  her  with  my  lips  as  well  as  with  my  eyes  how 
much  I  loved  her.  And  I  wanted  to  see  in  her  eyes 
the  sudden  gleam  of  love-light  which  would  tell  me 
that  we  belonged  to  each  other. 

Margaret  herself  was  beautifully  simple  and  natural. 
She  gave  no  outward  sign  that  she  was  aware  of  any 
difference  in  the  conditions  of  our  comradery.  I 
fancied,  however,  that  she  was  a  little  more  shy  of 
being  alone  with  me,  but  even  that  passed  off  in  a  day 
or  two,  and  she  was  as  frank  and  unaffected  as  always. 
I  continued  to  call  her  "  Margaret,"  for  it  would  have 
been  quite  impossible  for  me  to  have  said  "Miss 
Ravenel."  I  felt  no  rebuke,  and  in  my  heart  I  knew 
that  Margaret  loved  me. 

One  morning  a  few  days  after,  I  found  Margaret 
alone  in  the  garden.  She  would  have  sent  me  back 

291 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


to  my  tower,  but  I  begged  off  on  the  plea  that  I  had 
just  finished  one  piece  of  work  and  really  could  not 
begin  a  new  thing  until  the  next  day.  She  was 
somewhat  loath  to  let  me  off.  I  think  she  foresaw 
what  was  coming,  and  would  have  put  it  into  the 
future.  It  was  curious  that  I  could  sympathize  with 
Margaret  in  her  shrinking  before  this  great  change 
that  was  coming  into  her  life  and  mine,  and  was  yet 
as  powerless  to  avert  it  as  if  I  had  been  the  merest 
onlooker.  Something  as  irresistible  as  destiny  itself 
seemed  to  be  sweeping  us  both  on  into  a  larger,  more 
complex  life.  And  Margaret,  too,  recognized  the  in- 
evitableness  of  it.  Her  hesitation  was  not  from  lack 
of  love,  not  from  cowardice.  It  was  the  hesitation 
which  every  earnest  soul  must  feel  when  it  comes  to  a 
parting  in  the  road,  and  stands  for  one  brief  moment 
in  the  presence  of  the  unknown  and  untried. 

But  I  was  as  discreet  as  a  lover  can  be  who  really 
loves.  I  wanted  the  day  to  be  perfect,  something  that 
Margaret  and  I  could  always  remember  with  unalloyed 
pleasure.  Impatient  as  I  was,  I  would  not  have  star 
tled  her  by  too  abrupt  speaking.  She  knew  already 
that  I  loved  her.  We  walked  over  the  garden  to 
gether,  as  we  had  so  often  done,  under  the  poplars, 
through  the  orchard,  down  on  the  quay,  but  to-day 
we  added  a  walk  that  until  then  we  had  never  taken 
together,  the  one  along  the  half-hidden  path  to  the 
duke's  summer  house.  I  doubt  not  that  Margaret 
had  often  taken  it  alone,  but  I  had  never  been  with 
her.  I  had  saved  our  coming  there  together  for  this 

292 


MARGARET 


day.  It  was  Margaret  and  not  Miss  Ravenel  that  I 
meant  to  take  there.  Margaret  sat  down  on  the 
marble  seat  facing  the  Lake  just  as  I  had  meant  that 
she  should  do,  and  I  sat  opposite  to  her.  She  won 
dered,  she  said,  why  the  seat  was  there,  for  it  seemed 
to  her  quite  stupid  to  come  to  such  a  lovely  spot  and 
then  turn  one's  back  to  the  view.  I  told  her  the  story 
of  the  summer  house,  the  story  as  I  had  reconstructed 
it.  I  pointed  out  the  dainty  Italian  workmanship,  the 
partly  erased  flowers,  and  the  little  loves  flying  in  and 
out  among  them. 

"  The  lovely  Margherita  sat  there,"  said  I,  "  just 
where  you  are  sitting.  She  could  see  the  beautiful 
blue  sky  and  the  deeper  blue  of  the  water,  and  be 
tween  them,  the  lovely  brown  and  yellow  and  purple 
tints  of  the  Swiss  coast  and  the  Juras.  And  the  duke 
sat  here,  just  where  I  am  sitting,  a  little  to  one  side 
so  as  not  to  interfere  with  the  view,  but  still  very  near 
to  the  duchess." 

"  And  why  are  you  so  unkind  to  him  as  to  make 
him  out  less  a  lover  of  Nature  than  was  the  lady  ?  " 
asked  Margaret,  curiously,  for  as  yet  she  did  not  guess 
the  end  of  my  story. 

"  It  was  not  that,"  said  I,  "  for  he  was  passionately 
fond  of  Nature.  This  dear  old  garden  proves  it.  But 
it  seems  that  he  loved  the  Lady  Margherita  even 
more.  He  had  this  seat  constructed,  so  that  while  the 
lady  looked  towards  heaven,  he  could  find  it  in  her 
eyes." 

"  It  is  a  pretty  fancy,  Mr.  Percyfield,"  said  Mar- 
293 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


garet,  gently,  letting  her  eyes  rest  on  the  strongly 
lighted  mountains. 

"  You  used  to  call  me  « John,'  once,  Margaret." 

"  It  is  a  pretty  fancy,  then,  John,"  she  said,  and  the 
plain  old  name  sounded  very  sweet  from  her  lips,  even 
the  little  hesitation  that  came  from  the  newness  of  it. 
"  How  do  you  come  to  know  so  much  about  this  gal 
lant  old  duke  ?" 

"  It  was  the  insight  of  a  lover,  dear  Margaret,"  I 
answered ;  "  I  had  hoped  that  sometime  you  might 
be  sitting  just  where  you  are  now,  and  that  I  might 
be  opposite  to  you,  just  here.  And  I  had  hoped,  dear 
Margaret,  when  I  came  to  tell  you  of  my  love  that  I 
might  find  something  better  in  your  eyes  than  any 
view.  I  wanted  to  see  the  light  of  an  answering 
love.  Dear  Margaret,  dear  heart,  I  love  you  with  all 
the  passion  of  my  life.  Will  you  take  my  love  and 
keep  it  ?  Will  you  be  my  dear  wife  ?  Will  you  let 
me  be  your  lover,  your  husband  ?  "  I  was  no  longer 
sitting.  I  had  taken  Margaret's  hand.  I  was  seek 
ing  my  answer  in  those  clear  brown  eyes. 

Margaret  did  not  draw  her  hand  away.  She  looked 
frankly  and  fearlessly  into  my  own  eager  eyes.  I 
found  the  priceless  light  that  I  wanted  to  find.  I  knew 
now  beyond  any  peradventure  that  we  two  belonged 
to  each  other.  It  was  some  moments  before  Margaret 
spoke.  Her  voice  was  low,  but  as  clear  and  vibrating 
as  if  she  had  been  an  angel  bidding  me,  all  unworthy  as 
I  was,  to  enter  into  paradise.  I  may  not  write  down 
what  Margaret  said,  for  when  a  woman  confesses 

294 


MARGARET 


her  love  to  a  man,  it  is  something  too  sacred  to  be 
heard  by  any  one  else.  But  after  that  I  did  not  sit 
opposite  to  her,  but  on  the  bench  by  her  side,  and  the 
first  morning  of  our  new  life  together  slipped  into  the 
past.  The  old  garden  was  another  Eden,  and  I  stood 
face  to  face  with  a  new  creation,  the  marvel  of  a 
woman's  love. 

I  know  what  a  man's  love  is,  an  overwhelming  tor 
rent  that  sweeps  everything  else  before  it  and  obscures 
the  whole  face  of  creation. 

But  I  had  yet  to  learn  the  force  of  a  woman's  love ; 
its  tenderness,  its  devotion,  the  sweet  yielding  of  itself. 
And  the  marvel  of  it  often  hushed  me  into  silence. 

It  is  so  natural  to  love  Margaret  that  it  seems  to 
me  a  thing  that  could  not  be  helped.  As  I  look  at  her 
and  feast  my  hungry  eyes  on  her  dear  face,  I  feel  that 
my  love  is  as  inevitable  as  destiny  itself.  But  I  marveled 
that  Margaret  should  love  me.  I  have  read  in  the  old 
mythology  books  in  the  library  at  Uplands  how  the 
goddesses  in  Olympus  sometimes  loved  a  mortal  man, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  fable  was  repeating  itself. 
Margaret  is  everything  a  woman  should  be,  beautiful, 
accomplished,  high-spirited,  the  soul  of  goodness  and 
truth.  And  I  ?  As  you  know,  I  am  only  a  homely 
fellow  with  accomplishments  so  slender  that  it  would 
be  pitiful  to  name  them.  I  have  taste,  but,  as  Char 
lotte  rightly  says,  no  talent.  I  have  nothing  to  com 
mend  me,  nothing  save  my  great  love  and  my  earnest 
ness,  yes,  and  thank  God,  an  honorable,  unspotted 
name. 

295 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


When  I  spoke  to  Margaret  about  these  things,  she 
took  my  hand  in  hers  and  said  gravely,  "  Dear  John, 
I  do  not  know  whence  love  comes,  and  I  do  not  ques 
tion  it  any  more  than  I  question  the  sunlight.  But 
this  I  know,  that  in  my  heart  I  have  loved  you  ever 
since  we  were  children.  In  our  play  even,  it  came  out. 
If  you  were  Ivanhoe,  I  wanted  to  be  Rowena,  and 
though  I  was  willful  sometimes  and  teased  and  said 
I  'd  never  marry  you,  I  knew  all  along  I  could  never 
marry  any  one  else."  —  "  And  you  see  I  never  did," 
she  added  triumphantly.  Then  after  a  moment,  she 
said,  "  A  woman's  love  is  instinctive,  and  can  give  no 
account  of  itself.  I  think  it  is  the  soul  that  a  woman 
loves.  That  must  be  strong  and  brave  and  pure. 
Do  you  know  the  name  I  gave  you,  when  I  began  first 
to  think  about  you  very  much  some  years  ago.  It  was 
this,"  —  she  leaned  over  and  whispered  it  to  me,  — 
"  and  by  that  name,  I  knew  that  I  should  always  love 

you." 

It  has  not  made  me  think  more  highly  of  myself 
than  I  ought,  to  have  Margaret  love  me  so  much.  It 
is  no  merit  of  mine,  but  the  marvel  of  love  itself. 
But  this  it  has  done  for  me,  it  has  made  me  less 
and  less  conscious  of  myself  and  my  shortcomings,  and 
it  has  carried  me  into  a  broader,  truer  life.  If  at  times 
I  should  ever  grow  a  little  weary  and  discouraged,  as 
they  say  the  bravest  of  us  will  when  we  try  to  live  the 
life,  I  shall  think  of  that  high  name  by  which  I  am 
known  to  Margaret  alone,  and  I  shall  take  heart 
again. 

296 


MAKGARET 


There  was  no  reason  why  all  the  world  should  not 
know  the  joy  of  our  love,  and  so  that  very  day  at 
luncheon,  with  Margaret's  and  Mrs.  Ravenel's  per 
mission,  I  announced  the  formal  betrothal  of  Miss 
Margaret  Ravenel,  of  New  Orleans,  and  Mr.  John 
Percyfield,  of  Philadelphia. 

I  was  much  touched  by  the  sweet  kindness  with 
which  the  announcement  was  received.  No  one  was 
in  the  least  surprised,  and  so  I  suppose  I  had  been 
less  skillful  in  concealing  my  feelings  than  I  thought 
I  had  been.  The  Chatelaine  had  the  vin  ordinaire 
replaced  by  some  choice  old  Spanish  wine,  and  they 
all  drank  to  Margaret's  health  and  mine.  The  Chate 
laine  was  as  full  of  happiness  as  if  we  had  been  her 
own  children.  How  I  loved  the  dear  little  old  lady. 
Her  glistening  eyes  and  motherly  smile  were  constantly 
on  either  Margaret  or  me.  England  and  Ireland,  too, 
were  beautiful  in  their  interest  and  sympathy.  The 
busy  world  sometimes  forgets  that  we  need  sympathy 
in  our  happiness  as  well  as  in  our  sorrow.  These  three 
women,  no  longer  young  themselves,  save  in  their  feel 
ings,  will  ever  have  a  warm  spot  in  my  affections,  for 
I  shall  remember  that  at  a  time  of  great  joy  they  en 
tered  into  it  with  me. 

Scotland  alone  was  crotchety.  She  said  not  a  word 
of  congratulation,  and  before  any  of  us  knew  it,  had 
slipped  out  of  the  room  altogether.  I  concluded  that 
something  had  gone  amiss  between  her  and  her  bare 
legged  laird,  and  that  perhaps  it  pained  her  to  see 
Margaret  and  me  so  happy. 

297 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


But  my  greatest  surprise  was  dear  Mrs.  Ravenel. 
I  felt  guilty  at  the  thought  of  asking  her  for  Mar 
garet.  The  Yankees  had  robbed  Mrs.  Ravenel  of 
husband  and  father,  and,  now  in  her  old  age,  it  seemed 
almost  cruel  for  another  Yankee  to  come  along  and 
ask  her  for  all  she  had  left,  —  her  daughter.  I  should 
not  have  blamed  Mrs.  Ravenel  had  she  refused  me 
outright.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  wait 
for  Margaret  as  long  as  need  be  and  that  I  would  be 
as  considerate  as  possible  to  this  gentle  old  lady  whom 
time  had  so  strangely  mellowed  and  whom  I  loved  for 
her  own  sake  as  well  as  for  Margaret's.  I  went  to 
Mrs.  Ravenel  timidly,  for  I  felt  that  I  was  asking  so 
much.  But  I  found  again  the  depths  of  a  mother's 
love.  Mrs.  Ravenel's  own  married  life  had  been  very 
brief,  — Margaret  had  never  seen  her  father,  — but  it 
had  been  singularly  happy,  and  she  wished  the  same 
happiness  for  Margaret.  Mrs.  Ravenel  told  me  sweetly 
that  she  should  not  feel  that  she  was  losing  a  daughter, 
but  rather  that  she  was  gaining  a  son.  I  promised 
myself  as  well  as  her  that  that  was  what  Margaret's 
marriage  should  mean.  After  luncheon,  when  Mar 
garet  was  not  present,  Mrs.  Ravenel  told  me  how  un 
certain  she  felt  the  tenure  of  her  own  life  to  be,  and 
how  deeply  happy  she  was  to  feel  that  Margaret  had 
a  strong  heart  to  lean  upon  in  the  hour  of  sorrow  that 
was  so  soon  coming.  I  felt  now  that  I  could  not  give 
Mrs.  Ravenel  up.  I  tried  to  persuade  her  that  she 
was  stronger,  and  that  we  should  be  keeping  her  with 
us  for  many  long  years  to  come.  But  Mrs.  Ravenel 

298 


MARGARET 


shook  her  head  sadly  and  told  me  that  already  she 
felt  the  near  presence  of  the  death  angel.  She  begged 
me,  however,  not  to  say  anything  to  Margaret,  for  she 
wanted  her  present  happiness  to  be  as  complete  as  pos 
sible.  It  was  the  easier  to  do  this  as  I  persuaded  my 
self  that  Mrs.  Ravenel  was  mistaken. 

Aunt  Viney's  delight  was  unbounded.  She  had  al 
ways  been  very  fond  of  me.  I  think  I  stood  next  to 
Margaret  in  the  old  woman's  heart,  as  Margaret  did  to 
Mrs.  Ravenel.  But  Aunt  Viney  was  even  more  obsti 
nate  than  the  rest  of  the  Chateau  in  declining  to  be 
the  least  bit  surprised.  She  laid  claim  to  very  ancient 
knowledge  of  this  modern  affair  of  the  heart.  "  Go 
'long,  honey,"  she  said  to  me,  "  I  knowed  it  when  you 
and  Mis'  Marg'ret  was  both  of  you  chillens.  I  done 
tole  Pompey  that  Mis'  Marg'ret  and  Marsa  John  'ud 
be  a-gittin'  married  some  o'  these  days." 

In  my  happiness  I  did  not  forget  Charlotte.  Mar 
garet  and  I  each  wrote  her  a  long  letter,  and  sent  them 
off  in  the  same  envelope.  But  it  seemed  a  slow  way 
of  forwarding  good  news.  It  would  take  almost  two 
weeks  for  Charlotte  to  know,  so  in  the  twilight  Mar 
garet  and  I  walked  up  to  the  village,  and  I  sent  a 
cablegram  to  Charlotte.  On  the  way  Margaret  and  I 
amused  ourselves  composing  possible  messages,  but  all 
along  I  knew  very  well  what  I  should  say.  We  kept 
up  the  fun  during  the  whole  walk.  It  takes  very  little 
to  make  lovers  happy.  All  I  needed  was  to  have  Mar 
garet  with  me.  When  we  got  to  the  telegraph  office,  I 
surprised  her  by  writing,  —  "  Margaret  is  the  determi- 

299 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


nate  good,"  and  that  is  the  message  I  sent  to  Charlotte. 
I  knew  that  she  would  understand.  But  I  had  to  ex 
plain  the  message  to  Margaret,  and  after  it  had  been 
sent  off  under  the  sea  to  the  dear  Charlotte,  Margaret 
slipped  her  arm  through  mine,  and  said  softly,  "  And 
together,  John,  we  will  seek  the  indeterminate  good, 
you  and  I."  In  the  darkness  I  stooped  over  and 
kissed  her  lightly  on  the  forehead.  It  was  a  kiss  that 
had  been  waiting  for  a  dozen  long  years. 

It  was  now  late  in  June.  The  fruit  trees  had  lost 
their  riotous  bloom,  and  in  its  stead  the  fruit  was  tak 
ing  form.  The  shrubbery  was  heavy  with  its  fresh 
green  foliage.  The  summer  flowers  had  followed  those 
of  spring.  The  long  brilliant  days  and  the  warm 
genial  nights  made  life  a  veritable  holiday.  At  the 
Chateau,  the  days  came  and  went  much  as  they  did 
before,  save  that  for  Margaret  and  me  they  had  an 
added  richness.  Indeed  we  tried  to  keep  the  days 
much  as  they  had  been.  In  our  own  deep  happiness, 
we  wanted  not  to  be  selfish,  and  be  forever  slipping 
away  from  the  others  for  the  delightful  little  inter 
views  that  were  so  dear  to  us.  In  fact  I  saw  a  little 
less  of  Margaret  than  formerly,  for  by  common  con 
sent,  and  without  any  word's  being  spoken,  we  drew 
Mrs.  Ravenel  more  and  more  into  our  plans,  spending 
long  afternoons  sitting  with  her  in  the  garden,  talking 
or  reading  aloud  or  idly  breathing  in  the  bounty  of 
summer  warmth  and  color.  When  occasionally  Mar 
garet  and  I  went  off  on  our  wheels,  we  carried  the 
Chatelaine  with  us  as  often  as  she  could  be  persuaded 

300 


MARGARET 


to  go.  It  would  be  very  hard  on  the  Chatelaine  when 
the  Ravenels  left,  and  I  wanted  her  to  see  just  as 
much  of  Margaret  as  possible. 

For  myself  it  seemed  to  me  that  every  day  I  loved 
Margaret  the  more,  she  was  so  good  not  only  to  me 
but  to  every  one  else. 

Mrs.  Ravenel  and  Margaret  had  arranged  to  sail 
for  America  the  latter  part  of  July.  The  Beauregards 
had  a  cottage  at  York  Harbor,  and  the  Ravenels  were 
promised  to  them  for  August.  As  soon  as  it  got  cool 
enough  in  the  fall,  Mrs.  Ravenel  and  Margaret  in 
tended  to  go  back  to  Arlington.  So  it  became  neces 
sary  as  well  as  pleasant  for  us  to  be  thinking  of  the 
future.  My  own  plans  had  been  equally  definite.  I 
was  to  go  to  England  in  July  and  spend  a  couple  of 
months  among  the  social  workers  in  London.  I  meant 
to  make  Mansfield  House  my  headquarters.  I  had 
expected  to  be  back  in  Philadelphia  the  latter  part  of 
September.  But  now  I  was  eager  to  change  all  these 
plans.  If  I  could  have  had  my  own  way,  I  should  have 
married  Margaret  then  and  there.  I  could  imagine 
no  more  delightful  spot  for  a  wedding  than  our  beauti 
ful  old  Chateau,  and  no  more  acceptable  time  than  the 
immediate  present.  But  for  once  at  least  my  habit  of 
theorizing  was  a  real  help,  and  gave  me  a  patience 
which  I  might  otherwise  not  have  had.  I  had  always 
thought  that  a  wedding  ought  to  be  arranged  absolutely 
to  suit  the  bride,  that  in  every  detail  it  ought  to  be  as 
she  would  like  to  have  it,  the  one  most  perfect  day  of 
her  life.  It  would  have  been  unpardonable  selfishness 

301 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


on  my  part  to  intrude  a  single  wish,  for  to  have  my  su 
preme  wish  gratified,  to  have  Margaret  my  dear  wife 
forever,  made  every  other  wish  seem  unimportant. 
Consequently  there  was  little  change  in  our  proposed 
plans.  It  was  arranged  that  I  should  go  with  Margaret 
and  Mrs.  Ravenel  to  England  the  middle  of  July  and 
see  them  safely  off  on  their  steamer.  Then,  with  such 
grace  as  I  could  command,  I  was  to  settle  down  to 
my  social  studies  at  Mansfield  House,  and  sail  a  couple 
of  months  later,  just  as  I  had  expected  to  do.  The 
wedding  was  to  be  early  in  October  at  Arlington. 
Since  I  might  not  be  married  at  the  Chateau,  there 
was  no  spot  in  all  the  world  more  welcome  than  our 
dear  old  Arlington. 

Margaret  and  I  talked  over  the  guests.  There 
were  two  that  I  should  sadly  miss,  my  mother  and  my 
grandfather  Percyfield,  but  I  knew  they  would  be 
there  in  memory,  a  very  real  presence.  There  would 
be  Charlotte  and  Frederic  and  the  small  boy  and  my 
aunt  Percyfield,  and  a  whole  carload  of  other  Per- 
cyfields  and  Marstons.  Margaret  quite  agreed  with 
me  that  it  would  be  wise  just  to  charter  a  Pullman 
and  have  it  run  through  to  New  Orleans.  Then 
from  New  Orleans  itself  there  would  be  Ravenels  and 
Lees  and  Masons  and  Beaumonts,  cousins  to  the  fifth 
and  sixth  generation,  and  no  end  of  intimate  friends. 
It  is  well  that  Arlington  is  fairly  large,  and  that  the 
drawing-room  and  dining-room  open  with  wide  folding 
doors  into  the  hall.  I  counted  on  Peyton  as  best  man, 
Margaret  was  sure  that  I  might,  and  I  knew  the  mu- 

302 


MARGARET 


sician  would  want  to  play  for  us  with  his  own  hands. 
Each  detail  of  this  wedding  was  very  precious,  and  I 
had  to  speak  of  it  often  to  keep  me  in  heart  for  the 
long  separation  of  the  summer.  Margaret  humored 
me  in  this,  and  took  a  sweet  delight  in  it  herself.  It 
never  occurred  to  me  that  the  separation  would  be  hard 
for  her.  You  must  not  think  that  this  was  very  self 
ish.  It  was  only  that  I  still  found  it  an  impossible 
thought  that  Margaret  could  love  me  as  much  as  I 
loved  her.  Even  when  I  called  up  her  secret  name 
for  me,  and  experienced  each  day  her  tender,  unselfish 
love,  it  seemed  preposterous  that  life  for  her  could 
centre  so  completely  in  me,  as  for  me  it  did  in  her. 
It  was  no  lack  of  faith  in  Margaret.  It  was  only  that 
I  was  but  slowly  laying  hold  of  this  great  marvel  of  a 
woman's  love. 

So  we  came  apparently  to  our  last  days  at  the  Cha 
teau,  —  full,  ripe  days  of  perfect  peace  and  happiness. 
It  had  meant  from  the  first  a  great  deal  to  me  to  live 
under  the  same  roof  with  Margaret,  and  day  by  day 
to  enjoy  our  simple  comradeship.  And  when  I  came 
to  love  her,  it  meant  infinitely  more.  It  was  a  sweet 
prelude  to  the  holier  intimacy  of  marriage.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  we  were  day  by  day  adjusting  our  lives  to 
each  other,  and  preparing  ourselves  half  consciously 
and  all  devoutly  for  the  high  festival  of  our  love.  As  I 
came  more  and  more  to  know  what  love  meant,  and 
the  wonder  of  it,  I  felt  a  certain  awe  of  Margaret. 
She  became  for  me  something  very  sacred.  I  had  the 
lover's  instinct  to  want  to  be  near  her  and  to  touch 

303 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


her.  I  would  fain  have  stretched  out  my  strong  arms 
and  encircled  her  and  drawn  her  to  myself,  and  yet  I 
could  not  have  touched  so  much  as  the  hem  of  her 
garment  without  her  consent.  If  she  but  half  with 
drew  her  hand  from  mine,  I  must  needs  let  it  go, 
though  I  would  have  kept  it  there  forever. 

I  had  supposed  that  one  could  love  and  not  be 
loved,  but  it  seems  that  one  cannot.  It  is  only  the 
prelude.  Love  itself  comes  when  there  are  two  lov 
ing,  and  then  only  is  it  in  full  measure  and  perfect. 
And  in  those  quiet  days,  when  we  began  to  speak  of 
the  future,  and  of  our  plans  when  we  should  come 
again  to  America,  my  fancy  saw  the  home  that  I  had 
planned,  now  doubly  dear  since  Margaret  was  to  be  at 
the  head  of  it. 

Very  tenderly  and  very  reverently  I  thought  of  the 
children  who  might  be  born  to  us  as  the  sign  and 
symbol  of  our  love,  and  already  I  was  wishing  that 
they  might  resemble  Margaret  in  everything,  and  me 
only  in  the  great  love  I  bore  her.  And  when  I 
thought  that  there  might,  perhaps,  be  a  little  Margaret 
like  the  child  that  I  had  loved,  and  perhaps  a  little 
son  whom  we  might  call  Jack,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
my  life  had  indeed  become  a  beautiful  fairy  tale  that 
had  suddenly  been  made  true. 

I  would  have  celebrated  this  coming  of  the  deter 
minate  good  by  the  idlest  loitering,  by  anything  that 
would  have  kept  me  near  Margaret.  But  she  would 
not  have  it  so.  She  bade  me  go  on  with  my  work  and 
do  better  than  my  best  if  I  really  wanted  to  please 

304 


MARGAEET 


her.  And  she  herself  was  even  more  devoted  to  Mrs. 
Ravenel  than  formerly.  We  read  a  great  deal  those 
long  summer  afternoons,  for  Mrs.  Ravenel  was  able 
to  drive  only  very  short  distances,  and  to  walk  hardly 
at  all.  I  remember  that  we  read  aloud  Max  Miiller's 
Deutsche  Liebe.  Margaret  liked  it  much,  for  she 
said  it  was  pure  sentiment  without  the  least  touch  of 
sentimentality.  And  she  liked  what  my  grandfather 
Percyfield  had  written  about  strength  and  gentleness 
on  the  fly-leaf  of  my  copy.  Margaret  bade  me,  if  ever 
I  wrote  a  novel  or  a  love  story,  to  make  it  like  Miil 
ler's,  and  to  let  it  be  about  love  as  I  discovered  it  and 
experienced  it,  and  not  any  shabby,  second-hand  pic 
ture  of  what  I  thought  it  might  be,  or  could  be,  or 
ought  to  be.  But  I  only  laughed  and  told  her  that  it 
was  much  better  to  live  a  love  story  than  to  write  one. 
I  said  I  wanted  our  love  story  not  to  be  memories,  but 
an  ever  present  reality.  Margaret  was  standing  by 
my  chair  as  I  spoke.  She  stooped  over  and  kissed  me 
shyly  on  the  forehead.  It  was  the  first  time  that  she 
had  ever  kissed  me  since  we  were  children  together. 
I  caught  her  hand  in  mine,  and  looked  up  into  her 
illumined  face.  I  knew  that  come  what  would,  come 
what  could,  this  love  of  ours  was  a  reality  and  eternal. 


305 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   UNDISCOVERED   COUNTRY 

WE  had  reached  our  last  week  at  the  Chateau.  We 
began  to  feel  the  coming  separation.  We  began  to 
feel,  too,  what  it  would  mean  to  leave  our  enchanted 
castle  and  the  kind  Chatelaine.  Our  material  pre 
parations  were  easily  made.  Aunt  Viney  always 
packed  for  Margaret  and  Mrs.  Ravenel,  and  my  own 
packing  as  a  matter  of  principle  is  invariably  left 
until  the  very  last  evening,  so  that  the  spirit  of  unrest 
may  not  claim  me  for  its  own  one  moment  sooner  than 
is  necessary.  But  we  found  it  harder  to  make  the 
more  subtle  preparations,  to  say  good-by  to  all  our 
favorite  haunts,  and  to  get  ourselves  mentally  ready 
to  go.  Margaret  and  I  had  many  spots  to  visit.  We 
had  to  go  once  more  with  the  Chatelaine  to  Yvoire 
the  beautiful,  and  drink  afternoon  tea  with  Madame 
Thonon.  We  had  to  climb  to  La  Capite,  and  exult 
for  the  last  time  over  the  marvelous  beauty  of  Mont 
Blanc  at  sunset.  Then  we  had  to  have  a  long  row 
on  the  Lake,  and  go  once  more  for  some  final  music 
with  Mademoiselle  Werner.  And  there  were  nearer 
haunts  to  be  lingered  over,  the  dormer  window  in  the 
north  tower,  the  duke's  summer  house,  every  path  and 

306 


THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY 

corner  of  our  old  garden.  It  was  a  slow  process,  say 
ing  good-by. 

Mrs.  Ravenel  had  seemed  stronger  than  usual,  for 
the  prospect  of  going  back  to  America  was  evidently 
as  grateful  to  her  as  it  was  to  Aunt  Viney.  The 
excitement  produced  a  show  of  health  which  deceived 
all  of  us. 

It  had  been  raining  that  evening.  There  was  a 
constant  downpour,  and  the  monotonous  dripping  of 
water  as  it  fell  from  the  eaves  into  the  little  puddles 
on  the  ground.  But  in  the  drawing-room  it  was  bright 
and  cheery,  and  we  had  a  particularly  jolly  time. 
Mrs.  Ravenel  was  with  us.  The  United  Kingdom  was 
at  its  best.  The  Chatelaine  was  full  of  Swiss  stories 
and  anecdotes.  Margaret  sang  and  played  for  us. 
Altogether  it  was  one  of  those  evenings  that  you  like 
to  remember.  You  cannot  arrange  for  them.  They 
just  come  of  themselves,  born  of  a  lot  of  happy  circum 
stances  that  you  cannot  quite  foresee. 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  when  we  separated  for 
the  night.  I  stopped  in  the  drawing-room  and  prac 
ticed  until  midnight.  Then  I  went  upstairs  to  bed, 
and  directly  to  sleep.  I  must  have  slept  for  an  hour 
or  more  when  I  was  wakened  by  a  knock  at  my 
door.  I  am  the  only  one  who  sleeps  in  the  south 
tower,  and  I  thought  at  first  that  I  must  have  made  a 
mistake.  But  the  knock  was  repeated,  louder  than 
before.  I  jumped  out  of  bed  and  opened  the  door. 
It  was  Aunt  Viney.  Her  face  was  almost  pale,  and 
the  distressed  look  in  her  eyes  told  me  that  something 

307 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


serious  was  the  matter.  My  heart  almost  stood  still 
when  I  thought  that  perhaps  Margaret  was  ill.  "  For 
God's  sake,  Aunt  Viney,  what  is  the  matter?"  I 
cried. 

Aunt  Viney  was  so  grief-smitten  that  she  could 
only  speak  slowly,  "  Oh,  Marsa  John,  Mis'  Lucy  's 
done  took  drefful  ill,  and  Mis'  Marg'ret  she  says  will 
yo'  please  come  to  her  soon  as  yo'  can." 

I  charged  the  poor  old  woman  to  call  the  Chates 
laine,  and  then  I  lighted  my  candle  and  dressed  as 
quickly  as  I  could.  I  remembered  what  Mrs.  Ravenel 
had  told  me,  and  instinctively  I  felt  that  it  was  the 
death  angel.  I  hurried  over  to  the  north  tower,  my 
heart  overfull  with  sorrow,  for  I  knew  only  too  well 
what  dreadful  grief  was  in  store  for  Margaret  and  for 
faithful  Aunt  Viney. 

When  I  reached  Mrs.  Ravenel's  room,  I  found 
Margaret  and  Aunt  Viney  and  the  Chatelaine  gath 
ered  around  the  bedside.  The  room  was  lighted  by  a 
single  candle,  which  threw  a  feeble,  flickering  light 
over  the  grief-stricken  group.  I  would  fain  have 
believed  for  a  moment  that  the  scene  was  unreal,  a 
dreadful  dream  that  would  pass  if  I  could  only  rouse 
myself.  But  the  pressure  of  Margaret's  hand  and  the 
sight  of  her  white,  pitiful  face  drove  this  last  hope 
out  of  me.  I  knew  that  I  stood  in  the  near  presence 
of  death. 

Happily  Mrs.  Ravenel  herself  was  not  suffering. 
Could  we  but  have  known  it,  she  had  been  slowly 
dying  for  many  weeks  past,  and  so  gently  was  her 

306 


THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY 

spirit  disentangling  itself  from  the  spent  body  that 
there  was  none  of  that  fierce  struggle  for  life  that  is 
seen  when  a  strong  man  meets  his  death.  On  the 
contrary,  it  was  but  the  completion  of  a  process  that 
Mrs.  Ravenel  herself  had  clearly  foreseen.  Now  that 
the  supreme  moment  had  come,  it  was  a  moment  of 
triumph  rather  than  defeat.  A  sweet  peace  seemed  to 
envelop  Mrs.  Ravenel,  and  even  to  touch  the  white 
faces  at  her  bedside. 

Death  is  an  august  thing,  and  in  its  presence  a 
noble  soul  may  not  think  of  the  self,  but  only  of  that 
other  soul  which  is  meeting  this  tremendous  experi 
ence.  It  was  so  with  Margaret  and  even  with  Aunt 
Viney.  They  were  beyond  the  point  of  tears,  and 
were  in  that  calm  which  is  the  breath  of  the  tomb 
itself.  The  Chatelaine  was  quietly  weeping. 

Mrs.  Ravenel  opened  her  eyes.  There  was  in  them 
the  joy  of  one  who  comes  into  her  own  again,  that  last 
intense  spark  which  greets  us  before  the  spirit  is  gone. 
With  much  effort,  Mrs.  Ravenel  sought  out  each  face, 
Margaret's,  Aunt  Viney's,  the  Chatelaine's,  mine,  lin 
gering  on  each,  but  longest  on  Margaret's  and  mine. 
Mrs.  Ravenel  could  not  speak  to  us,  but  I  understood 
the  look  of  perfect  satisfaction  that  came  into  her 
face.  She  was  going  to  the  husband  of  her  youth,  to 
the  festival  of  renewed  love,  and  she  was  glad  to 
leave  Margaret  with  me.  Then  the  fire  went  out  of 
her  eyes,  the  spark  was  spent,  and  we  knelt  in  the 
presence  of  the  dead. 

When  Margaret  realized  that  it  was  indeed  death, 
309 


JOHN  PEKCYFIELD 


she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  Aunt  Viney  no 
longer  restrained  her  sobs. 

The  Chatelaine  had  ceased  weeping,  and  her  eyes 
were  very  bright.  "  Look,"  she  whispered  eagerly  to 
me,  and  there  in  the  uncertain  light  of  this  chamber 
of  present  death  I  saw  a  faint  gray  cloud  detach  itself 
from  the  quiet  body,  like  a  symbol  of  the  spirit  that 
was  passing,  and  ascend  into  the  void  space  above  us. 
I  dared  not  speak  to  Margaret,  for  had  she  failed  to 
see  it,  it  would  have  been  a  cruel  interruption,  prob 
ably  a  cruel  disappointment.  It  was  a  pale  silver 
cloud,  in  substance  like  the  luminous  aureole  that 
I  had  once  seen  about  my  own  body,  and  of  which 
I  have  already  made  mention.  Had  it  not  been 
for  the  Chatelaine,  I  should  have  counted  it  an  illu 
sion  born  of  my  own  mental  habit  of  imaging  events. 
As  it  is,  I  think  always  of  Mrs.  Ravenel  as  I  saw 
her  in  that  brief  moment,  a  gracious  figure  untouched 
by  age  or  grief  ;  and  I  can  think  of  her  no  longer 
as  the  feeble  gentlewoman  who  came  to  our  dear 
Chateau  de  Beau-Rivage  to  exchange  old  age  for 
youth,  and  to  pass  before  us  into  the  undiscovered 
country. 

After  a  time,  Margaret  yielded  to  my  earnest  en 
treaty,  and  went  with  me  into  the  drawing-room,  while 
I  begged  the  Chatelaine  to  care  for  Aunt  Viney.  I 
was  fearful  that  in  the  first  frenzy  of  her  grief  the 
old  woman  might  destroy  herself.  To  her,  "Mis' 
Lucy "  was  the  world.  They  had  been  children  to 
gether  in  the  old  slave  days,  and  Viney  had  belonged 

310 


THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY 

to  her  little  mistress  in  soul  and  heart  as  well  as  body. 
The  emancipation  proclamation  had  never  reached  her. 
She  had  accepted  what  she  needed  in  the  way  of  food 
and  clothing,  but  never  any  other  wage.  It  had  been 
a  service  of  love  for  a  whole  lifetime.  Now  it  was 
ended,  and  the  grief-smitten  old  woman  stood  alone, 
in  many  ways  the  most  bereaved  of  all  of  us.  I  had 
great  influence  with  Aunt  Viney,  both  because  of  her 
love  and  her  belief  in  my  supernatural  powers.  I 
knew  that  I  could  bring  her  thought  to  Margaret  and 
me,  somewhat  later,  but  now  my  whole  thought  was 
with  Margaret.  I  said  a  few  hurried  words  of  caution 
to  the  Chatelaine  in  French,  and  I  knew  that  I  could 
depend  upon  her  in  any  emergency. 

I  made  up  a  fire  in  the  drawing-room,  for  the  night 
had  that  shuddering  chill  upon  it  which  is  noticeable 
even  in  summer  just  before  the  dawn.  Then  I  lighted 
several  lamps  and  carefully  shaded  them,  so  that  the 
room  itself  might  help  me  in  my  ministrations  to  Mar 
garet.  I  made  her  sit  down  before  the  fire  in  the  high- 
backed  chair  that  England  usually  occupied.  I  saw 
that  Mrs.  Ravenel's  chair  was  pushed  back  into  a  cor 
ner.  I  drew  my  own  chair  up  to  Margaret's,  and 
there  we  sat  the  rest  of  that  dreadful  night,  her  hand 
in  mine,  and  both  of  us  still  in  the  presence  of  the 
dead.  We  said  very  little,  for  it  was  too  soon  to 
offer  any  word  of  comfort.  I  could  only  concentrate 
my  presence  on  Margaret,  and  make  her  feel  the  warm, 
human  love  which  wrapped  her  about,  as  with  a  gar 
ment,  and  shared  her  sorrow  to  the  full.  In  these 

311 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


supreme  moments  of  life,  one  does  not  wish  to  talk. 
It  is  the  spirit  and  the  silence  that  speak. 

Margaret  and  I  sat  there  before  the  fire  until  the 
day  was  fully  come,  and  the  warm  summer  sun  had 
quite  put  out  the  feeble  light  of  our  shaded  lamps. 
We  neither  of  us  had  any  sense  of  the  passing  time. 
At  last  I  was  aroused  by  a  gentle  knock  on  the  door. 
It  was  England.  She  came  over  to  us  and  laid  her 
hand  caressingly  on  Margaret's  hair.  "  My  poor  chil 
dren  "  —  she  said.  Then  her  voice  choked,  and  she 
could  say  no  more.  But  she  had  spoken,  and  we  both 
understood ;  we  felt  the  comfort  of  her  presence.  After 
a  time,  England  took  Margaret  away  with  her  and  put 
her  to  bed. 

I  went  upstairs  and  dressed.  It  was  a  source  of 
unspeakable  comfort  to  me  that  Mrs.  Ravenel  had  felt 
as  she  did  towards  me,  and  that  in  all  of  the  sad  duties 
that  would  soon  be  pressing  I  had  the  right  to  act  as 
her  son.  I  had  scarcely  finished  dressing  when  Marie 
came  to  the  door  with  a  card.  It  was  Mademoiselle 
Werner.  I  hastened  down  to  the  drawing-room,  much 
touched  by  the  prompt  kindness  of  this  unusual  friend. 
If,  however,  I  had  not  understood  Mademoiselle  Wer 
ner  as  well  as  I  did,  I  should  have  been  shocked  by 
her  appearance.  It  was  as  if  a  brightly  colored  but 
terfly  had  come  into  a  tomb.  Mademoiselle  Werner 
was  dressed  in  one  of  her  very  gay  summer  costumes, 
and  her  fresh,  childlike  face  was  as  radiant  as  if  she 
had  come  to  a  wedding.  At  first  I  thought  that  she 
could  not  know  of  Mrs.  Ravenel's  death.  I  suppose 

312 


THE  UNDISCOVERED   COUNTRY 

my  face  must  have  expressed  as  much,  for  Mademoiselle 
Werner  hastened  to  undeceive  me  :  "  Yes,  my  friend," 
she  said,  taking  my  hand  in  hers,  "  I  know  all.  I  came 
to  you  as  soon  as  I  could.  It  is  at  first  a  very  great 
shock,  is  it  not  ?  But,  Monsieur,  you  must  have  known, 
for  it  is  a  thing  that  has  been  coming  towards  you  for 
many  weeks.  You  must  have  felt  it  and  known  it. 
When  it  fell  upon  you  last  night,  it  was  terrible  for 
Mademoiselle  Margaret.  I  remember  how  I  felt  when 
my  own  dear  mother  died,"  —  the  tears  filled  her  eyes, 
but  the  radiant  smile  did  not  waver  for  an  instant,  — 
"  but  when  one  is  happy  to  go,  we  would  not  wish  to 
detain  them.  We  wish  for  our  friends  their  heart's 
desire,  do  we  not  ?  Yes,  I  knew  that  you  would  say 
so.  Ought  we  to  hesitate,  then,  Monsieur,  even  at  the 
grave  ?  No,  we  must  not  be  guilty  of  this  great  self 
ishness.  You  know  with  me,  do  you  not,  that  Madame 
has  found  her  heart's  desire  ?  Can  you  and  the  young 
girl  not  believe  this,  and  calm  your  grief?  May  I 
speak  to  Mademoiselle  Margaret?  May  I  tell  her 
that  it  is  so  very  well  with  Madame,  her  mother  ?  " 

I  hardly  knew  what  to  answer.  I  was  not  sure  that 
Margaret  would  understand.  I  said  that  I  would  see. 
I  went  directly  to  the  Chatelaine  to  ask  her  advice. 
She  thought  it  would  be  all  right,  and  came  herself  to 
take  Mademoiselle  Werner  to  Margaret. 

I  waited  impatiently  in  the  drawing-room,  so  anx 
ious  that  Margaret  should  have  every  possible  consola 
tion,  and  yet  so  fearful  that  Mademoiselle  Werner's 
visit  might  be  a  mistake.  More  than  an  hour  passed. 

313 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


When  at  last,  Mademoiselle  Werner  rejoined  me,  I 
saw  at  once  by  the  exaltation  in  her  face  that  she  felt 
her  visit  to  have  been  successful.  She  sat  down  by 
the  window  that  looks  out  on  the  Lake,  and  for  a  time 
she  seemed  to  forget  my  presence,  she  was  so  absorbed 
in  thought.  When  at  last  she  turned  to  me,  her 
whole  manner  had  completely  changed.  There  was  a 
look  of  great  weariness  in  her  face.  She  looked  curi 
ously  like  a  tired  child.  She  wished  to  speak  to  me, 
she  said,  about  the  funeral.  And  now  I  was  to  meet 
as  great  a  surprise  as  any  that  I  had  experienced  with 
this  strange  being,  this  Fantasy  Child,  as  she  so  rightly 
called  herself.  She  spoke  to  me  about  the  practical 
details  of  the  funeral  with  a  wisdom  and  a  common- 
sense  that  a  strong  man,  quite  unacquainted  with  Mrs. 
Ravenel  and  untouched  by  any  emotion,  might  perhaps 
have  shown.  I  listened  incredulously,  but  with  in 
creasing  attention,  for  the  arrangements  she  proposed 
were  far  beyond  anything  I  could  have  planned  myself. 
Even  as  I  listened,  I  could  not  help  seeing  that  Made 
moiselle  Werner's  plans  owed  their  splendid  mastery 
to  an  idea,  and  could  never  have  been  devised  by  a 
simply  practical  person.  The  idea  underlying  every 
thing  was  to  spare  Margaret. 

That  it  had  cost  Mademoiselle  Werner  very  dear  to 
live  all  this  out  in  her  imagination  showed  itself  in 
her  face.  I  felt  more  deeply  grateful  to  her  for  this 
than  even  for  the  strange  help  that  she  had  tried  to 
give  me  in  the  matter  of  the  music.  I  must  not  dwell 
on  all  these  sad  details,  but  simple  gratitude  to  Made- 

314 


THE  UNDISCOVEKED  COUNTRY 

moiselle  Werner  compels  me  to  make  some  record  of 
them. 

Mademoiselle  Werner  wished  that  the  thought  of 
death  might  remain  with  Margaret  the  shortest  pos 
sible  time.  She  wished  to  separate  the  idea  from  the 
Chateau,  and  from  Margaret's  life  at  once,  and  to  fix 
Margaret's  thought  upon  the  living  mother,  first  in 
the  past  and  then  under  what  Mademoiselle  Werner 
conceived  to  be  the  far  happier  and  more  glorious  con 
ditions  of  the  present.  For  Mademoiselle  Werner 
has  so  absolute  a  faith  in  immortality  that  one  can 
not  be  with  her  for  any  length  of  time  without  in  some 
measure  sharing  it.  I  had  come  to  this  same  belief 
by  a  different  path  and  needed  no  conversion.  But  I 
had  not  the  wit  to  act  upon  my  belief  in  the  splendid 
way  that  Mademoiselle  Werner  acted  upon  hers.  I 
had  thought  to  have  a  simple  funeral  service  at  the 
Chateau,  and  then  to  proceed  to  the  Protestant  burial 
ground  at  the  village.  But  Mademoiselle  Werner 
showed  me  at  once  that  this  would  be  to  fix  the  idea 
of  death  in  connection  with  the  Chateau,  while  what 
we  wanted  was  to  make  Margaret  remember  only  the 
happy  days  that  Mrs.  Ravenel  had  spent  here.  Made 
moiselle  Werner's  plan  was  to  have  the  service  and 
burial  at  the  beautiful  little  cemetery  at  Clarens,  the  one 
looking  out  towards  the  Dent  du  Midi  and  the  solemn 
snow-covered  Alps,  the  one  where  Amiel  sleeps.  Mar 
garet  had  never  been  there.  It  would  be  a  strange, 
sudden  experience,  quite  unconnected  with  her  daily 
life,  and  less  likely  to  intrude  into  her  gentler  mem- 

315 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


cries.  I  owed  the  suggestion  to  Mademoiselle  Wer 
ner  also  that  we  should  go  by  boat  directly  from  the 
Chateau  to  the  cemetery.  I  did  not  consult  Mar 
garet  about  any  of  the  details.  I  simply  asked  her  if 
she  would  be  willing  to  leave  everything  to  me,  and 
let  me  do  what  seemed  for  the  best,  and  she  said  that 
she  was  quite  willing.  So  I  left  her  most  of  the 
time,  as  indeed  I  had  to,  to  England  and  the  Chate 
laine. 

It  was  a  strange  little  cortege  that  swept  up  our 
beautiful  Leman  from  the  Chateau  de  Beau-Rivage  to 
the  sacred  ground  at  Clarens.  Besides  Margaret  and 
Aunt  Viney  and  myself,  there  were  only  the  United 
Kingdom,  the  Chatelaine,  Mademoiselle  Werner,  and 
our  good  neighbors,  Monsieur  and  Madame  du  Chene. 
To  make  the  journey  as  short  as  possible,  I  had  se 
cured,  through  Monsieur  du  Chene's  great  kindness, 
the  loan  of  one  of  the  fastest  steam  yachts  registered 
in  the  club  at  Geneva.  When  we  went  on  board,  the 
coffin  was  already  in  position  under  the  awning  on 
the  rear  deck.  It  had  been  placed  there  unknown  to 
Margaret,  while  we  were  making  a  pretense  of  break 
fast  in  the  salle  a  manger.  Mademoiselle  Werner 
would  have  no  flowers.  She  wished  to  save  them 
from  any  association  with  the  grave.  A  coffin  is  a 
terrible  thing.  It  would  have  been  insupportable  to 
sit  there  on  the  deck,  staring  at  it  during  the  whole  of 
our  sad  voyage.  Mademoiselle  Werner  had  provided 
against  that.  The  coffin  was  buried  under  the  volu 
minous  folds  of  a  great  American  flag.  Margaret 

316 


THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY 

started  perceptibly  when  she  saw  it.  I  knew  what 
she  was  thinking  about.  It  seemed  for  the  moment 
an  odd  destiny  that  this  gentlewoman,  who  had  sac 
rificed  everything  for  the  flag  of  the  Confederacy, 
should  now  be  going  to  her  grave  wrapped  in  the  Stars 
and  Stripes,  and  that  one  of  her  chief  mourners 
should  be  a  Yankee  lad  whom  she  had  once  mistrusted 
and  disliked.  But  I  would  not  have  changed  it  if  I 
could.  It  seemed  to  symbolize  that  now  all  the  mis 
takes  of  the  past  had  been  blotted  out  once  for  all, 
and  that  this  gentle  friend,  whom  I  sincerely  mourned 
for  her  own  sake  as  well  as  for  Margaret's,  had  died 
as  completely  reconciled  to  the  manifest  destiny  of 
Louisiana,  as  she  had  been  reconciled  to  me.  I 
pressed  Margaret's  hand  and  the  answering  pressure 
told  me  that  it  was  all  right. 

The  awnings  on  the  yacht  hung  low,  so  that  we 
could  see  little  but  the  sparkling  blue  water  as  it 
rushed  past  us.  Mademoiselle  Werner,  with  a  single 
ness  of  purpose  such  as  I  have  never  experienced  be 
fore,  had  arranged  Margaret's  chair  on  the  outer  side 
of  the  boat  so  that  she  might  not  see  the  Chateau. 
The  awnings  hid  the  Juras. 

Aunt  Viney  sat  on  one  side  of  Margaret,  and  I  on 
the  other.  Aunt  Viney  behaved  remarkably  well. 
In  some  ways  the  tragedy  was  deepest  for  her.  Her 
devotion  to  Mrs.  Ravenel  antedated  even  Margaret's 
by  more  than  a  score  of  years,  and  it  had  been  ab 
solutely  single-hearted.  Nor  had  Aunt  Viney  our 
compensations.  I  had  talked  with  her  several  times 

317 


JOHN  PEKCYFIELD 


and  tried  to  make  her  see  that  "  Mis'  Lucy  "  would 
be  best  pleased  if  she  controlled  herself  and  did  all 
she  could  for  Miss  Margaret.  I  told  her,  too,  what  I 
had  seen  at  the  bedside  of  the  dying  woman,  and  how 
very  sure  I  was  that  now  Miss  Lucy  was  entirely  happy 
and  was  with  Marsa  LeRoy  and  old  Marsa  Lee.  It 
was  touching  to  see  Aunt  Viney's  utter  confidence  in 
all  that  I  said,  and  the  heroic  fidelity  with  which  she 
tried  to  think  always  of  Margaret  and  never  of  herself. 

Presently  the  silence  of  our  journey  was  broken  by 
Mademoiselle  Werner's  voice.  She  was  singing.  It 
was  not  a  dirge,  a  requiem,  but  something  soft  and 
sweet  and  human,  with  a  strange  undercurrent  of 
triumph  in  it.  To  Mademoiselle  Werner,  death  was  a 
species  of  triumph,  and  I  knew  in  my  heart  that  she 
envied  the  dead  woman  for  whose  sake  we  were  mak 
ing  this  strange,  solemn  voyage.  It  was  impossible 
for  Margaret  to  restrain  her  tears,  and  in  truth  I  was 
glad  to  have  them  flow,  for  her  calm  frightened  me 
more  than  any  expression  of  grief. 

At  Clarens,  there  was  another  nicety  of  arrange 
ment,  for  which  I  had  to  thank  the  dear  Chatelaine. 
We  got  at  once  into  the  waiting  carriages,  before  the 
flag  was  touched.  Then  we  were  driven  by  a  some 
what  roundabout  way  to  the  cemetery  itself.  When 
we  got  there,  the  coffin  was  already  in  the  grave,  and 
the  great  flag  concealed  it.  The  clergyman  from  the 
neighboring  church  at  Montreux  read  the  Anglican 
service  for  the  dead,  —  beautiful  and  solemn  in  its  re 
verence  and  in  its  assurance  of  immortality.  It  is  a 

318 


THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY 

supreme  moment,  standing  for  the  last  time  in  the 
visible  presence  of  the  dead.  But  every  influence  of 
comfort  and  peace  had  been  brought  to  bear  upon  us, 
and  it  had  not  been  without  effect.  When  the  clergy 
man  dropped  the  handful  of  earth  into  the  open  grave, 
as  is  required  by  his  office,  it  fell  silently  upon  the 
thick  folds  of  the  flag,  and  Margaret  was  spared  the 
crudest  sound  in  all  of  our  too  cruel  burial  customs, 
the  sound  of  earth  falling  on  the  coffin  of  some  one 
you  love,  a  thud  that  strikes  against  the  very  portals 
of  the  heart,  and  in  the  still  watches  of  the  night 
strikes  and  strikes  again  until  it  seems  as  if  you  must 
go  crazy.  Then  Mademoiselle  Werner  sang  once  more, 
not  something  from  the  Hymnal,  but  an  old  Gregorian 
chant  which  she  knew  Margaret  would  not  be  likely 
ever  to  hear  again. 

The  kind  Monsieur  du  Chene  remained  at  the  grave 
and  afterwards  he  attended  to  having  a  suitable  stone 
erected  for  me.  You  will  find  it  at  the  third  turning 
after  you  pass  the  grave  of  Amiel.  It  is  a  simple  white 
stone,  "  In  Loving  Memory  of  Lucy,  daughter  of  Gen 
eral  Archibald  Lee,  and  wife  of  Lieutenant  LeRoy 
Ravenel,  of  New  Orleans."  The  two  lines  that  follow 
were  written  by  Margaret. 

We  drove  quickly  to  the  railroad  station.  The 
yacht  meanwhile  had  disappeared.  It  would  have  been 
too  cruel  to  have  gone  back  to  the  Chateau  on  board 
of  her,  with  that  dreadful  empty  space  under  the  awn 
ing  on  the  rear  deck,  a  space  into  which  we  could  not 
penetrate  and  from  which  we  could  not  withdraw  our 

319 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


thoughts.  Nor  would  it  have  been  consistent  with 
Mademoiselle  Werner's  plan.  It  was  easy  to  secure 
a  couple  of  compartments  for  the  ride  to  Geneva,  and 
from  there  we  drove  out  to  the  Chateau. 

How  wonderfully  kind  the  world  is  at  all  times, 
and  especially  when  one  is  in  sorrow !  The  gentle 
women  at  the  Chateau  had  endeared  themselves  to  me 
in  a  thousand  ways  before  this,  but  now  they  seemed 
more  like  kinswomen  than  friends  of  only  a  year's 
standing.  In  all  things  they  were  so  good  to  Mar 
garet.  They  helped  me  to  make  her  feel  that  the 
world  was  still  full  of  warm,  human  love  and  sympathy ; 
and  by  the  sweet,  natural  way  in  which  they  spoke  of 
Mrs.  Ravenel  they  strengthened  Mademoiselle  Werner 
and  me  in  our  effort  to  have  Margaret  think  of  her 
mother  as  one  who  had  gone  into  another  country,  but 
who  had  not  for  a  moment  ceased  to  be. 

The  two  weeks  following  Mrs.  Ravenel's  funeral 
were  dreadfully,  pitiably  sad.  I  trembled  for  Mar 
garet's  health.  For  a  time,  the  intensity  of  her  grief 
admitted  of  no  comfort.  Margaret  did  not  want  to 
grieve  me,  and  she  was  touchingly  grateful  for  all  that 
was  done  for  her,  but  the  very  strength  of  her  nature 
made  the  sense  of  loss  overwhelming.  I  knew  that  she 
was  not  weakly  giving  way  to  her  grief.  I  could  see 
that  she  was  making  a  brave  fight  against  it.  But  my 
heart  ached  me  sore  to  see  her  suffer  so.  I  had  to  keep 
telling  myself  that  in  the  end  she  must  win  through. 

It  was  a  trifle  over  two  weeks  later  that  Aunt  Viney 
came  to  my  door  early  one  morning  while  I  was  still 

320 


THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTEY 

dressing  to  say  that  Miss  Margaret  would  breakfast 
with  me  in  the  salle  a  manger  and  to  ask  what  hour 
it  should  be.  After  Mrs.  Ravenel's  death,  the  Chate 
laine  had  taken  Margaret  to  her  own  apartments  and 
always  had  her  breakfast  served  there.  I  was  re 
joiced  to  have  this  word  from  Margaret,  for  I  knew 
what  it  meant.  It  meant  that  Margaret  had  returned 
to  life  again.  I  sent  word  to  come  when  she  would, 
and  she  should  find  me  gladly  awaiting  her  there.  I 
hastily  finished  dressing,  putting  aside  the  black  tie 
that  I  had  intended  to  wear,  and  substituting  a  more 
cheerful  one.  I  went  downstairs  with  a  light  heart.  I 
did  not  have  to  wait  long  for  Margaret.  As  soon  as 
she  opened  the  door,  my  heart  leaped  for  joy,  for  I  saw 
that  a  great  change  had  taken  place  in  my  dear  lady. 
She  wore  one  of  those  simple  white  gowns  that  I  call 
dimity,  and  better  still  she  wore  her  old  glad  smile 
again.  I  went  to  meet  her  with  outstretched  hands. 
She  took  them  both  in  hers.  Then  she  dropped  them, 
and  put  her  arms  around  me  and  kissed  me.  "  John," 
she  whispered,  "  I  have  been  very  selfish.  Mother  "  — 
her  voice  trembled,  but  she  went  on  bravely,  —  "  mother 
would  not  like  me  to  have  given  way  as  I  have  done. 
But  I  am  myself  now." 

My  brave  Margaret !  she  had  not  been  in  the  least 
selfish.  You  may  be  sure  that  I  denied  it.  She  had 
simply  been  overwhelmed  with  grief,  the  first  deep 
grief  of  her  life,  and  as  I  held  her  there  in  my  arms, 
I  prayed  God  that  it  might  be  the  only  one. 

To  have  Margaret  with  me,  and  in  this  happier 
321 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


frame  of  mind,  made  me  so  boyishly  light-hearted  that 
I  had  to  restrain  myself,  lest  I  wound  her  with  my  too 
high  spirits.  But  the  change  in  Margaret  was  very 
deep.  Often  there  was  a  pitiful  tremble  to  her  lips, 
or  the  sudden  filling  of  her  eyes  with  tears,  but  she  put 
them  resolutely  away  and  was  her  brave  sweet  self 
again.  Nor  would  Margaret  let  me  avoid  the  mention 
of  her  mother.  Margaret  seemed  to  like  to  speak  of 
her,  and  it  was  better  so.  {  To  forget  our  dead,  or  to 
put  them  into  the  oblivion  of  silence  is  to  smother 
grief,  not  to  conquer  it.  The  only  way  we  can  conquer 
grief  is  to  accept  it,  face  it,  live  with  it,  and  then  with 
the  help  of  that  love  which  makes  our  grief,  but  is 
deeper  than  any  grief,  we  shall  in  the  end  win  through. 
I  have  not  tried  to  make  Margaret  think  that  this 
sorrow  can  ever  pass  completely  out  of  her  life,  for  I 
know  too  well  that  such  may  not  be.  But  I  know  that 
if  nobly  borne,  as  I  am  sure  that  she  will  bear  it,  the 
bitterness,  the  poison  of  it,  will  be  sucked  out  by  time, 
and  her  love  will  always  be  greater  than  her  sorrow. 

After  breakfast  we  went  into  the  garden.  Margaret 
asked  me  how  I  had  been  spending  my  mornings,  and 
she  asked  very  particularly  about  my  work.  I  had  to 
answer  that  I  had  been  working  as  usual,  but  that  it 
had  not  amounted  to  much,  for  I  had  been  thinking 
all  the  time  of  her.  Margaret  said  that  this  must 
not  be  so  any  more.  Then  she  spoke  of  my  stay  in 
London  and  her  desire  that  I  should  be  carrying  out 
my  plans.  I,  too,  had  been  thinking  about  this,  but 
more  because  I  knew  that,  sooner  or  later,  Margaret 

322 


THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY 

would  ask  about  the  matter,  and  I  had  determined, 
plans  or  no  plans,  that  at  such  a  moment  I  would 
not  leave  her.  I  had  rather  vague  ideas  about  how 
we  might  satisfy  the  proprieties,  but  I  tried  to  keep 
them  in  mind,  for  Mrs.  Raven  el  and  indeed  all  of 
Margaret's  people  were  very  conventional,  and  I  would 
not  for  the  world  have  done  anything  contrary  to 
what  Mrs.  Ravenel  would  have  wished,  or  anything 
what  would  distress  the  New  Orleans  relatives.  But 
all  the  same,  I  meant  to  stay  with  Margaret,  to  cross 
the  ocean  with  her,  to  go  with  her  to  New  Orleans,  to 
marry  her,  and  never  to  leave  her  until  the  summons 
came  from  that  higher  power  to  which  in  the  end  we 
must  intrust  all  things.  I  thought  in  a  nebulous  sort 
of  way  that  perhaps  the  Chatelaine  would  go  with  us 
to  America  and  would  care  for  Margaret,  though  I 
knew  the  plan  was  too  selfish  ever  to  meet  Margaret's 
approval. 

But  Margaret  also  had  been  thinking.  She  had 
foreseen  this  opposition  of  mine  and  had  brave  plans 
for  sending  me  off  to  London,  and  going  home  herself 
somewhat  later  with  Aunt  Yiney,  by  way  of  Genoa 
and  the  Mediterranean  service.  But  I  think  that 
Margaret  was  relieved  that  she  did  not  have  to  carry 
these  brave  plans  out,  for  you  may  be  quite  sure  that 
I  would  never  consent  to  any  such  arrangement.  It 
was  not  a  time  for  separation.  If  ever  Margaret 
needed  me  in  her  life  she  needed  me  now,  and  I  meant 
to  serve  her,  come  what  would. 

When  Margaret  had  satisfied  all  her  scruples  by 
323 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


finding  every  other  plan  quite  impossible,  she  said  to 
me  as  shyly  as  if  she  had  been  a  princess,  and  com 
pelled  by  reasons  of  court  etiquette  to  ask  some 
smaller  dignitary  to  marry  her,  "  Then,  John,  I  will 
go  to  London  with  you  as  your  wife.  We  will  be 
married  here  at  the  Chateau." 

I  put  my  arms  around  Margaret  and  pressed  her 
warm  cheek  to  mine.  "  Dear  Margaret,"  I  cried, 
" dear  wife; "  and  afterwards  it  seemed  to  me  that  this 
had  been  our  true  wedding  service,  the  plighting  of 
our  troth  before  God. 

I  had  thought  of  this  plan,  but  it  had  seemed  ungen 
erous  for  me  to  propose  it  after  Margaret  herself  had 
once  rejected  it.  But  to  have  Margaret  propose  it  her 
self  cleared  away  all  difficulties  at  once,  and  made  me 
very,  very  happy.  So  anxious  was  Margaret  to  be 
entirely  unselfish  in  all  her  plans  and  to  help  on  my 
work  in  every  way  in  her  power  that  she  would  have 
married  me  in  two  or  three  days  had  I  but  said  the 
word.  If  I  had  consulted  my  own  inclinations  I  would 
have  had  the  wedding  that  afternoon,  so  that  I  might 
have  the  right  to  stay  with  Margaret  always  and  com 
fort  her  with  my  ever-present  love.  But  I  put  off  the 
wedding  for  a  full  fortnight,  naming  a  date  somewhat 
more  than  a  month  after  Mrs.  Ravenel's  death.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  in  this  new  attitude  of  mind  the 
quiet  life  at  the  Chateau  would  do  more  to  restore 
Margaret  than  would  any  other  possible  plan.  Thanks 
to  Mademoiselle  Werner's  great  tact  and  goodness, 
the  associations  here  had  been  made  as  little  painful 

324 


THE   UNDISCOVERED   COUNTRY 

as  could  be.  Then,  too,  a  wedding  day  had  always 
seemed  to  me  an  occasion  of  the  first  moment,  the 
consummation  of  the  deepest  experience  that  can  come 
into  the  life  of  a  true  man  or  woman,  and  I  wanted 
Margaret  to  meet  her  wedding  day  with  the  largest 
measure  of  gladness  that  the  circumstances  made  pos 
sible. 

The  arrangements  for  our  very  quiet  and  unexpected 
wedding  were  too  simple  to  require  much  time  or 
attention,  and  so  in  a  modified  way  Margaret  and  I 
resumed  many  of  the  habits  of  our  former  life.  Mar 
garet  absolved  me  from  all  work  and  allowed  me  to  be 
with  her  nearly  the  whole  of  the  waking  day.  They 
were  grave,  quiet  days,  not  untouched  with  moments 
of  deep  sorrow,  but  I  look  back  upon  them  as  days  of 
profound  happiness.  To  have  Margaret  with  me  so 
constantly  was  itself  a  great  boon,  and  she  drew  nearer 
to  me  than  had  been  possible  before.  When  Mar 
garet  came  to  the  Chateau,  she  came  quite  untouched 
by  any  great  sorrow.  In  my  own  life,  in  spite  of  its 
brave  show  of  high  spirit,  there  is  the  impress  of  a 
double  loss,  the  death  of  my  grandfather  Percyfield 
and  the  greater  tragedy  of  my  mother's  death.  I  had 
been  living  all  of  this  over  again  these  past  few  days, 
and  so  perfectly  could  I  enter  into  Margaret's  feelings 
that  it  seemed  to  me  already,  in  a  spiritual  sense,  we 
were  man  and  wife,  and  beginning  to  live  our  com 
mon  life  together.  We  spent  more  of  the  day  out 
doors  in  the  garden,  or  walking  or  riding  our  wheels. 
Vigorous  physical  exercise  is  always  a  great  relief  to 

325 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


the  pain  of  the  spirit,  and  these  beautiful  summer 
days  I  rejoiced  to  take  Margaret  on  long  and  rather 
hard  outings.  I  tried  to  tire  her  just  as  far  as  I  dared 
so  that  she  might  be  sure  to  sleep  at  night. 

Margaret  is  much  more  conventional  in  her  faith 
than  I  am,  and  carries  many  more  traditional  beliefs 
than  real  ones.  Mrs.  Ravenel,  like  most  Southerners, 
was  a  very  strict  Churchwoman,  and  believed  ac 
cording  to  the  letter  rather  than  according  to  the 
spirit.  Margaret's  strong  nature  made  it  impossible 
for  her  to  accept  many  of  the  illogical  doctrines  which 
Mrs.  Ravenel  professed,  and  pleased  herself  by  believ 
ing  that  she  believed.  In  Margaret's  world  there  had 
been  heretofore  no  alternative  between  this  conven 
tional  faith  and  utter  disbelief.  Neither  position  was 
possible  to  Margaret,  and  so  she  had  remained  osten 
sibly  bound  to  the  old  traditions,  not  denying  them, 
but  getting  no  living  comfort  out  of  them.  It  is  a 
region  of  vague  hopes  and  large  doubts  and  frequent 
heartaches,  a  veritable  valley  of  shadows.  It  is  a  re 
gion  very  thickly  tenanted.  And  the  souls  there  are 
commonly  very  noble  souls.  It  is  their  strength  that 
denies  the  literalness  of  the  old  faith,  with  all  its  de 
ficiency  of  imagination  and  flexibility  and  sweet  growth. 
It  is  their  religion  that  makes  impossible  the  vulgarity 
of  destructive  agnosticism.  Margaret  is  one  of  them, 
how  thoroughly  so  I  did  not  know  until  after  Mrs. 
Ravenel's  death.  Before  this,  Margaret  had  given  me 
many  glimpses  into  this  region  of  spiritual  shadows, 
but  in  the  bright  springtime  of  our  love  it  was  natural 

326 


THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY 

for  us  to  turn  to  a  thousand  other  topics,  and  to  give 
this  only  casual  place  among  the  rest.  Now  it  is  quite 
different.  Margaret's  recovery  from  the  shock  of  her 
mother's  death  has  been  a  supreme  personal  effort, 
prompted  by  her  love  for  me,  by  her  sense  of  duty, 
and  above  all,  I  think,  by  her  feeling  of  noblesse 
oblige.  Margaret  is  a  soldier's  daughter,  and  though 
he  may  have  fought  in  a  mistaken  cause,  he  did  it 
generously  and  sincerely,  and  this,  his  daughter,  is 
cast  in  the  same  heroic  mould.  But  under  it  all,  I 
can  see  that  Margaret's  spirit  is  hungry  for  some  more 
assured  ground  of  belief.  What  would  I  not  give  to 
be  able  to  share  my  own  radiant  faith  with  her,  a  faith 
which  is  not  made  up  of  impossible  traditions,  but  is 
a  revelation  constantly  renewing  itself  in  the  heart. 
No  creed,  be  it  Nicene  or  Bostonian,  is  truly  religious 
unless  it  frame  itself  in  such  general  terms  as  to  allow 
for  this  evolution  of  the  human  spirit. 

I  do  not  use  the  word  God  as  Margaret  has  been 
accustomed  to  hearing  the  word  used.  To  me  it  is  a 
terrible  thing  to  believe  in  a  petty,  book-keeping  god 
who  expects  to  get  more  than  even  with  us  when  the 
great  day  of  account  comes  ;  or  in  a  local  god  of 
Palestine  who  selects  one  people  to  be  the  instru 
ment  of  his  mercy,  and  another  people  to  be  the  in 
strument  of  his  wrath.  I  am  too  good  a  democrat  for 
that,  and  much  too  religious  so  to  blaspheme  the  idea 
of  deity.  The  God  in  whose  presence  I  daily  live,  and 
whom  I  earnestly  worship,  is  the  great  cosmic  God, 
the  one  whom  some  of  the  Hebrew  prophets  appre- 

327 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


bended,  whom  I  think  Jesus  declared,  the  permeating 
intelligence  and  spirit  of  the  world,  that  appears  in 
each  one  of  us  and  gathers  us  all  into  one  unity.  I 
grant  that  it  is  a  vague  conception,  vague  just  in  pro 
portion  as  the  reality  for  which  it  stands  transcends 
human  experience.  But  it  is  not  more  vague  than 
the  conceptions  of  physical  science.  Indeed  I  think 
of  God  somewhat  as  I  do  of  the  ether.  The  ether  is 
the  intellectual  medium  in  which  the  drama  of  the 
physical  world  takes  place.  And  so  God  seems  to  me 
the  permeating  spiritual  medium  in  which  everything 
happens  that  ever  does  happen  in  the  spiritual  world. 
My  religious  life  has  its  high  festivals,  its  special 
times  and  seasons,  its  ecstasies,  and  the  even  tenor  of 
its  ways,  but  in  effect  it  is  the  whole  of  my  life,  the 
entire  twenty-four  hours  of  my  day.  It  is  a  matter  of 
the  daily  thought  and  emotion,  the  daily  food  and 
dress,  the  daily  work  and  play,  the  daily  intercourse 
with  the  neighbor,  and  the  respect  that  I  pay  to  my 
self.  To  make  God  manifest,  to  accept  only  the  best, 
—  this  to  me  is  religion. 

At  this  crisis  in  Margaret's  life  it  is  in  the  ques 
tion  of  immortality  that  she  feels  the  greatest  interest. 
To  Margaret,  as  to  many  church  people  whom  I  have 
met,  immortality  is  a  possibility,  at  most  a  faint  hope, 
but  never  a  positive  belief.  She  marvels  that  I  should 
hold  so  strenuously  to  it.  She  is  afraid,  I  think,  that  I 
believe  it  because  I  want  to  believe  it,  that  I  am  all 
unwilh'ng  to  give  up  the  brave  spirits  who  have  passed 
before  us  into  the  undiscovered  country,  or  to  admit 


THE  UNDISCOVEEED  COUNTEY 

even  to  myself  that  they  may  have  passed  into  no 
thingness.  It  is  a  wholesome  caution,  for  usually  our 
thought  turns  on  this  deep  problem  when  death  forces 
the  question.  It  is  an  old  mistake,  that  of  calling  de 
sires  beliefs.  But  I  think  I  have  allowed  for  this.  I 
have  said,  if  death  end  all,  if  that  be  the  truth  of  it, 
then  that  is  what  I  want  to  believe.  For  no  man  in 
his  right  senses  wishes  to  be  either  self -deceived  or 
other-deceived.  I  have  doubted  immortality,  even  dis 
believed  it,  but  now  I  believe  it  on  as  strong  warrant 
as  I  have  for  any  of  my  scientific  beliefs.  In  one 
sense,  immortality  cannot  be  experienced ;  it  is  not  a 
fact  of  experience  in  the  same  immediate  way  that 
certain  minor  scientific  facts  are.  But  neither  can 
the  paleozoic  age  be  experienced,  nor  space,  nor  time, 
nor  cause  and  effect.  They  are  inductions  from  ex 
perience.  And  so  to  me  is  immortality.  It  is  an 
induction  from  experience.  In  a  world  where  every 
reality  is  essentially  spiritual  or  intellectual,  which 
ever  term  you  prefer,  where  even  the  study  of  nature, 
as  soon  as  it  passes  from  mere  observation  into  orderly 
science,  becomes  a  mental  rather  than  a  physical  fact, 
I  can  only  imagine  the  disappearance  of  spirit  by  pic 
turing  the  annihilation  of  the  universe  itself.  With 
out  the  mental  part  that  we  give  to  all  of  our  so- 
called  facts,  they  would  cease  to  exist.  It  is  possible 
that  the  universe  does  shrivel  up  in  this  way  and  dis 
appear,  but  it  is  less  probable,  I  think,  than  any  one 
of  the  great  possibilities  which  science  rejects  and  feels 
warranted  in  accepting  their  opposite  as  fact. 

329 


JOHN  PERCYEIELD 


Margaret  and  I  spoke  of  these  deep  problems  at  so 
great  length,  for  when  the  heart  is  torn  between  love 
and  sorrow  it  does  not  turn  to  the  trivial  things  of 
life,  but  to  the  very  deepest. 

And  so  the  days  slipped  into  the  past,  and  it  was 
August,  and  the  eve  of  our  wedding  day. 

There  was  a  sweet  solemnity  about  that  last  even 
ing  of  our  separate  lives.  We  spent  the  early  part  of 
it  in  our  beloved  garden,  in  the  duke's  summer  house, 
and  later  we  sat  in  the  great  drawing-room,  looking 
out  upon  the  Lake.  There  was  no  moon,  but  the  stars 
were  as  bright  as  so  many  beacon  lights,  and  from 
time  to  time,  a  meteor  flashed  its  tiny  line  of  flame 
across  the  sky.  From  the  opposite  shore,  the  lamps  of 
Versoix  and  Coppet  sent  their  light  gleaming  out 
upon  the  waters,  far  enough  away  not  to  be  intrusive, 
near  enough  to  be  cheery  and  human.  It  seemed  to 
me  then,  as  I  sat  there,  with  Margaret  at  my  side,  her 
hand  in  mine,  her  curling  chestnut  hair  against  my 
shoulder,  that  much  there  is  in  life  that  is  doubtful, 
but  that  the  one  reality  of  all  is  love.  In  thinking  it 
over  it  seems  to  me  still  that  in  this,  at  least,  I  was 
pretty  near  right.  And  when  at  last  Margaret  left 
me,  to  sleep  that  last  sleep  of  her  maidenhood,  she  put 
her  arms  about  me  and  kissed  me,  and  for  the  first 
time  called  me  husband.  Then,  in  very  truth,  I  felt 
a  consecrated  man,  and  my  strength  seemed  as  the 
strength  of  ten. 


CHAPTER   XH 

AN  UNUSUAL   HONEYMOON 

IT  was  our  wedding  day.  When  I  awoke,  the  warm 
sun  was  streaming  in  at  my  eastern  window,  the  one 
where  I  fancied  that  the  Duchess  Margherita  sat  of  a 
morning  with  her  little  son.  I  glanced  around  my 
great,  bare  apartment.  It  had  been  my  home  for 
days  and  nights  that  when  added  together  made  up  a 
full  year.  Here  I  had  worked.  Here  I  had  striven 
as  a  man  may  to  purify  my  own  spirit,  to  clear  my 
own  vision,  to  chasten  my  own  speech,  to  prepare  my 
self  as  any  acolyte  might  for  the  high  priesthood  of 
letters,  to  school  myself  for  the  social  service  that  I 
hoped  to  render  to  America.  Here  I  had  wrought 
for  days  and  nights,  working  in  hope,  and  in  passion 
ate  sincerity.  I  had  stepped  aside  from  the  world  of 
action  for  a  year,  to  think,  and  to  learn  how  to  ex 
press  the  result  of  my  thought.  And  the  harvest  of 
this  year,  I  felt,  had  not  been  small. 

Here  in  this  old  south  tower  I  had  dreamed  dreams, 
and  sweet  memories  had  crowded  thick  around  me.  I 
had  re-lived  the  days  of  my  boyhood.  I  had  tasted 
again  its  joys  and  amusements,  its  fresh  young  love. 
The  little  Margaret  had  been  with  me  at  dusk  and  in, 
the  moonlight.  My  mother  and  my  grandfather  Percy- 

331 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


field  had  been  called  out  of  the  past  into  the  present. 
Charlotte,  with  her  laughing  blue  eyes  and  delicious 
banter,  had  been  an  ever-present  guest.  And  here  it 
was,  best  of  all,  that  there  had  been  revealed  to  me 
my  love  for  Margaret.  Here  had  come  that  wonder 
ful  night  when  I  first  knew  that  I  loved  her.  You 
will  not  wonder  that  this  great,  bare  room  was  to  me 
a  holy  place. 

And  to-day  I  was  to  leave  it,  and  to  leave  my  care 
less  youth.  I  was  to  enter  upon  the  responsible  double- 
life  of  manhood,  to  come  into  the  determinate  good. 
I  got  out  of  bed  with  all  these  thoughts  rushing 
through  my  head.  I  felt  very  grave  and  very  solemn. 
So  much  had  suddenly  come  into  my  life  that  I  had 
the  sense  of  being  almost  overwhelmed.  The  youth 
that  I  was  leaving  had  been  fair  and  pure.  What 
ever  it  had  lacked  of  accomplishment,  of  performance, 
of  positive  good,  it  was  at  least  unstained.  I  was 
going  to  Margaret  without  any  reservations  or  confes 
sions.  The  beautiful  name  she  gave  me,  I  might  hon 
orably  accept.  On  a  man's  wedding  day  he  may  be 
perfectly  frank  with  himself,  and  heaven  knows  he  is 
a  happy  man  if  this  frankness  need  not  take  the  form 
of  regrets.  I  could  speak  thus  of  myself  to  myself 
in  all  humility,  for  I  knew  that  the  merit  was  not 
mine.  It  was  a  part  of  that  patrimony  of  good- 
breeding  which  sums  up  the  struggles  and  purposes  of 
many  generations  of  red-blooded  men  and  high-spirited 
women.  And  I,  who  reaped  the  fruit  of  this  high 
endeavor,  stood  before  it  in  humility  and  gratitude. 


AN  UNUSUAL  HONEYMOON 

As  I  looked  at  my  own  strong  body,  with  its  almost 
boyish  freshness  and  wholesome  color,  I  resolved  that 
should  God  give  me  sons  and  daughters  of  my  own, 
I  would,  with  his  help  and  Margaret's,  instruct  them 
in  all  things,  passing  on  unimpaired  the  gift  that  my 
ancestors  had  bequeathed  to  me,  and  teaching  my 
children  to  make  their  religion  a  matter  of  the  whole 
day,  of  the  body  and  the  mind  and  the  spirit,  and  so 
to  push  forward  the  eternal  quest  of  the  perfect  life. 

Then  I  dressed  quickly  and  ran  downstairs  to  greet 
my  bride. 

I  could  have  asked  no  better  day.  It  was  clear  and 
still,  with  that  mellow  ripeness  which  comes  with  mid 
summer.  The  Chateau  was  as  lovely  as  the  day.  In 
the  early  morning,  while  we  still  slept,  the  indefati 
gable  Chatelaine  had  transformed  the  big  drawing- 
room  into  a  veritable  garden.  There  were  great 
branches  of  greenery  and  large  growing  plants  from 
Monsieur  du  Chene's  hothouses,  and  large  bunches  of 
cut  flowers  on  all  sides.  How  much  I  appreciated 
Mademoiselle  Werner's  forethought  in  having  no  flow 
ers  at  the  funeral.  I  think  she  had  this  happier  day 
in  mind.  The  usual  rugs  had  all  been  removed  from 
the  drawing-room,  and  the  dark  oak  floor  freshly  pol 
ished.  In  their  stead  was  a  curious,  richly  colored 
rug  in  the  very  centre  of  the  room.  It  was  an  old 
wedding-rug,  such  as  they  use  in  Sweden.  It  had 
been  the  gift  of  an  old  Swedish  count  when  the  Chate 
laine's  mother  was  married,  and  was  used  only  on  the 
occasion  of  weddings.  The  prevailing  color  was  yel* 

333 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


low,  in  deference,  I  suppose,  to  the  color  of  the  guests' 
clothing,  as  prescribed  by  Hymen.  It  is  a  pretty 
custom. 

England  and  Ireland  had  constructed  a  large  cross 
made  of  dark-green  ivy,  and  had  placed  it  back  of 
where  the  clergyman  was  to  stand.  It  gave  the  draw 
ing-room  quite  the  air  of  a  church,  and  the  large  win 
dows  in  their  frames  of  greenery  added  to  this  effect. 
On  all  sides  I  saw  the  evidence  of  loving  care.  When 
I  tried  to  thank  the  Chatelaine,  her  eyes  filled,  and 
she  said  that  it  was  nothing  at  all.  I  know  that 
when  you  love  people,  it  seems  nothing  to  render  them 
this  sweet  service,  but  to  them  it  is  everything.  It 
seemed  as  if  every  one  tried  to  make  up  for  the  loss 
of  the  gentle  mother,  whose  presence  would  have  so 
beautifully  completed  this  ideal  wedding. 

It  was  a  small  company  that  gathered  in  this  lovely 
flower-embowered  room  to  see  Margaret  and  me  mar 
ried,  the  same  company  that  had  gone  with  us  to 
Clarens,  except  Mademoiselle  Werner  and  Scotland. 
Mademoiselle  Werner  sent  Margaret  a  bunch  of  the 
most  exquisite  flowers.  They  were  all  simple  flowers, 
but  they  were  arranged  with  a  skill  such  as  I  had 
never  seen  before.  There  were  white  roses  and  pink 
roses,  and  luxuriant  purple  heliotrope,  and  pink  and 
white  carnations,  with  a  touch  of  green  in  the  way  of 
fern  and  smilax.  Usually  I  much  prefer  a  bunch  of 
flowers  to  be  all  of  the  same  kind,  and  it  takes  rare 
skill  to  equal  the  beauty  of  this  simple  arrangement. 
But  Mademoiselle  Werner's  bouquet  had  evidently 


AN  UNUSUAL  HONEYMOON 

been  copied  from  some  old  piece  of  Dresden  china, 
and  had  all  of  its  delicacy  and  charm.  It  was  charac 
teristic  of  Mademoiselle  Werner,  as  was  her  equally 
exquisite  note  to  me  wishing  Margaret  and  me  a  life 
better  than  the  best.  Mademoiselle  Werner  did  not 
come  to  the  wedding  herself,  lest  she  might  recall  her 
singing  to  Margaret  and  so  sadden  her  unnecessa 
rily.  Scotland  took  this  occasion  to  spend  the  day  at 
Ouchy,  which  I  thought  was  uncommonly  uncivil  of 
her.  The  Chatelaine  said,  however,  that  it  was  all 
right.  She  evidently  has  a  key  to  Scotland's  character 
that  I  entirely  fail  to  possess.  I  asked  the  Chatelaine 
if  Scotland's  knight  was  at  Ouchy,  the  barelegged 
laird.  The  Chatelaine  said  he  was  n't  barelegged,  and 
he  was  n't  a  laird,  so  that  I  am  left  without  any  theory 
whatever,  unless —  But  that  is  impossible. 

In  addition  to  our  little  company,  all  the  servants  of 
the  Chateau  were  present,  and  also  my  faithful  music 
teacher,  Madame  Martigny.  For  the  official  part  of 
the  ceremony  we  had  the  pleasant  young  clergyman 
from  the  American  church  at  Geneva,  and  the  Amer 
ican  consul.  I  wanted  duplicate  state  papers,  so  that 
I  might  send  one  to  the  little  parish  near  New  Orleans, 
where  for  generations  the  family  records  of  the  Rav- 
enels  have  been  duly  filed,  their  births  and  marriages 
and  deaths,  and  the  other  to  the  Percyfield  archives  at 
Uplands.  I  should  have  been  entirely  happy  could 
we  but  have  had  Charlotte  and  Frederic  with  us,  and 
Peyton  and  the  musician.  They  all  sent  us  cable 
grams,  sweet  messages  of  love  and  congratulation,  as 

336 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


did  also  the  New  Orleans  relatives,  and  even  my  aunt 
Percyfield.  The  musician's  cablegram  read,  "  Beetho 
ven  fortissimo,"  which  I  quite  easily  understood.  He 
plays  Schumann  and  I  prefer  Chopin,  but  we  both  love 
Beethoven. 

Nothing  could  have  been  simpler  than  this  quiet 
wedding  of  ours.  It  was  celebrated  at  high  noon,  after 
the  wedding  custom  of  both  families.  It  is  strange 
how,  in  these  solemn  occasions  of  life,  one  turns  so 
persistently  and  loyally  to  the  honorable  customs  es 
tablished  by  one's  ancestors.  It  was  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world  for  Margaret  and  me  to  wish  to  fol 
low  these  customs  with  fidelity.  Happily  both  families 
had  observed  much  the  same  usage.  It  always  takes 
us  with  a  shivering  sort  of  surprise  when  we  hear 
young  people  talk  of  the  latest  fashions  in  these  solemn 
matters.  There  was  no  one  who  could  properly  give 
the  bride  away,  and  neither  Margaret  nor  I  was  sorry 
to  omit  this  mediaeval  custom,  for  it  did  not  in  the 
least  accord  with  our  own  idea  of  marriage.  To  us 
it  was  the  giving  of  one  to  the  other,  and  we  could 
better  symbolize  it  by  walking  side  by  side.  It  was 
just  noon  when  Madame  Martigny  played  the  stirring 
wedding  march  from  Lohengrin,  and  Margaret  and  I 
passed  into  the  drawing-room  to  be  made  formally  man 
and  wife. 

Margaret  was  dressed  very  simply  in  a  white  gown. 
I  do  not  know  what  the  material  was,  for,  as  you  may 
have  noticed,  I  am  rather  lacking  in  discrimination  in 
all  such  matters.  I  call  the  white  things  4  dimity/  if 

336 


AN  UNUSUAL  HONEYMOON 

they  please  me,  and  'stuff,'  if  they  don't.  I  only 
know  that  this  wedding-gown  of  Margaret's  stood 
quite  at  the  head  of  the  dimity  class.  Margaret  was 
not  pale,  nor  was  her  face  sad.  There  was  a  gentle 
sweetness,  born  of  her  sorrow,  but  otherwise  she  was 
her  radiant,  natural  self.  It  was  the  gladness  of  her 
great  love  that  surrounded  her,  as  with  an  atmosphere, 
and  sent  a  thrill  through  every  one  present,  even,  I 
believe,  down  to  the  stolid  Marie,  who  murmured  "  la 
belle  demoiselle."  At  the  door  of  the  drawing-room 
the  Chatelaine  slipped  something  white  into  Margaret's 
hand.  It  was  a  vellum-covered  little  book,  something 
like  a  missal,  containing  the  Episcopal  wedding  ser 
vice,  and  had  been  illuminated  by  the  Chatelaine  her 
self.  It  was  her  wedding  gift  to  Margaret.  In  the 
back  there  was  a  place  for  the  names  of  all  the  wit 
nesses,  and  here  we  have  the  signatures  of  that  kind 
company,  beginning  with  the  Chatelaine  and  ending 
with  Madame  Martigny. 

I  have  never  been  to  a  wedding  so  sweet,  so  solemn. 
This  was  due  in  part  to  the  fact  that  it  was  my  own 
wedding.  But  aside  from  that  and  quite  impartially, 
I  believe  it  was  a  perfect  wedding.  The  real  marriage 
between  Margaret  and  myself  had  already  taken  place. 
The  words  of  the  clergyman  were  only  the  outer  and 
dignified  expression  of  this  inner  ceremony.  It  was 
not  nervous ;  it  was  not  hurried.  It  was  not  over 
shadowed  by  the  anxiety  that  something  might  go 
wrong.  It  was  all  so  lacking  in  elaborateness  that 
there  was  nothing  which  could  possibly  go  amiss.  There 

337 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


were  no  bridesmaids  to  toy  with  their  flowers  or  their 
gowns  ;  no  '  best  man '  to  be  watching  apprehensively 
for  the  appearance  of  the  bridal  party ;  no  ushers  to 
be  fidgeting  with  their  four-inch  collars,  or  trying  fran 
tically  to  button  an  obstinate  glove,  or  flirting  with 
some  pretty  bridesmaid  whom  they  hoped  one  day  to 
be  leading  themselves  to  the  altar.  There  was  no 
crowding  in  and  out  of  carriages,  and  enduring  the 
vulgar  gaze  of  the  curious,  no  distractions  of  any  sort 
whatever.  There  was  enough  form  to  give  dignity 
and  beauty  to  the  ceremony,  but  not  enough  to  over 
load  it  and  hide  its  real  meaning.  It  was  in  effect 
what  I  wished  it  to  be,  the  festival  of  our  love,  of 
Margaret's  love  and  mine.  And  when  the  ceremony 
came  to  an  end,  and  the  clergyman  in  his  clear,  manly 
voice  said,  "  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the 
Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  I  pronounce  you  man 
and  wife.  Whom  God  hath  joined  together,  let  no 
man  put  asunder,"  Margaret  and  I  remained  for 
some  tune  kneeling,  absorbed  in  the  wonder  and  the 
sacredness  of  it. 

Later  in  the  day  we  drove  into  Geneva  and  took 
the  night  train  for  Paris,  en  route  to  the  work  in 
London ;  and  with  us  we  carried  the  love  and  bless 
ing  of  three  as  noble  old  gentlewomen  as  ever  gathered 
under  one  roof. 

It  was  an  unusual  honeymoon  that  Margaret  and  I 
spent.  We  rested  a  day  in  Paris.  I  wanted  to  show 
Margaret  her  picture  in  the  Louvre.  Then  we  went 
directly  on  to  London,  by  way  of  Calais  and  Dover. 

338 


AN  UNUSUAL  HONEYMOON 

It  was  no  longer  possible  to  go  to  Mansfield  House,  so 
we  established  ourselves  in  Torrington  Square.  As  it 
was  to  be  our  home  for  two  months  at  least,  I  took 
great  care  to  select  rooms  that  were  bright  and  sunny. 
We  made  them  as  attractive  as  possible  by  getting 
out  our  own  pictures  and  belongings,  such  draperies 
and  bric-a-brac  as  Margaret  and  I  had  stored  away 
in  our  several  trunks.  We  were  greatly  surprised  to 
find  that  we  had  picked  up  so  much.  It  was  quite  a 
distinct  and  delightful  sensation  to  speak  of  '  our ' 
things.  Everything  new  that  I  bought  I  had  sent  home 
to  '  Mrs.  John  Percyfield.'  It  was  such  a  joy  to  say 
the  name  and  to  see  it  written.  It  took  me  some  time, 
though,  to  get  used  to  the  cold-blooded,  unemotional 
way  in  which  the  clerks  in  the  different  shops  put  it 
down  in  their  scrawly,  running  handwriting.  You 
might  have  thought  that  it  was  just  an  ordinary 
name,  instead  of  being  brand-new  and  full  of  senti 
ment. 

Our  rooms  were  very  sweet-looking  when  Margaret 
and  I  had  arranged  all  our  pretty  things  and  put  the 
finishing  touches  to  them.  We  had  bright  silk  blan 
kets  from  Rome,  and  bronzes  from  Naples,  and  wood 
mosaics  from  Sorrento,  and  carvings  from  Geneva, 
and  several  marbles  from  Florence,  and  photographs 
and  water-colors  from  pretty  much  everywhere.  Then 
I  added  a  number  of  splendid  growing  plants,  and 
every  few  days  the  friendly  old  florist  around  the 
corner  sent  us  in  fresh  cut  flowers.  But  the  greatest 
treasure  in  these  pretty  rooms,  the  fairest  flower  of 

339 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


all,  was  my  very  dear  Margaret,  my  beautiful  bride, 
my  comrade  wife.  I  had  always  disliked  London  as 
a  dull,  murky  city  of  very  doubtful  attractions,  a  place 
where  one  might  buy  some  new  clothes,  take  a  dip 
into  the  Royal  Academy,  and  be  gone  by  the  first  con 
venient  train.  But  with  Margaret  at  my  side,  Lon 
don  was  a  veritable  paradise.  The  two  months  went 
round  with  a  speed  that  I  could  hardly  have  believed 
possible.  We  made  a  few  excursions,  such  as  to  Ox 
ford  and  Cambridge,  and  the  nearer  cathedral  towns, 
and  we  had  a  few  delightful  days  on  the  Isle  of  Wight, 
walking  over  Shanklin  Down  to  Ventnor  and  the 
great  St.  Catherine's  Light.  To  be  at  Ventnor  and 
St.  Catherine's  carried  us  back  to  America  and  made 
our  home-going  seem  very  near,  for  both  of  us  had  so 
often  looked  at  these  spots  from  the  deck  of  a  trans- 
Atlantic  steamer  going  up  or  down  the  Channel. 

But  the  greater  part  of  our  time  we  stopped  in 
London  and  busied  ourselves  with  the  grave  social 
work  which  had  taken  us  to  England.  With  Mar 
garet  at  my  side,  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  eyes  had 
more  than  double  power.  I  saw  such  a  multitude  of 
things  which  without  her  quick  glance  would  have 
quite  escaped  me.  Margaret  threw  herself  into  the 
work  with  absolute  single-heartedness  and  was  the 
greatest  help.  I  had  not  supposed  it  possible  that  she 
could  go  in  for  the  work  with  such  thoroughness  and 
such  scientific  care.  What  particularly  impressed  me 
was  her  power  of  putting  her  finger  unerringly  on  the 
weak  spot  in  any  movement  or  plan.  It  was  her  per* 

340 


AN  UNUSUAL  HONEYMOON 

fectly  fresh,  unspoiled  point  of  view,  and  her  sound 
instinct  that  gave  her  this  marvelous  critical  power. 
It  seemed  to  me,  indeed,  that  had  I  consulted  my 
work  solely  and  quite  left  my  heart  and  its  needs  out 
of  the  question,  the  cleverest  thing  I  could  possibly 
have  done  was  to  have  married  Margaret.  But  even 
greater  than  this  direct  help  was  the  indirect  help 
that  Margaret  gave  me.  With  my  great  love  sing 
ing  in  my  heart  night  and  day,  and  with  Margaret 
always  near,  I  had  a  power  such  as  I  had  never 
known  before. 

Margaret's  personal  interests  were  characteristic. 
It  was  the  human  side,  the  home,  that  most  appealed 
to  her.  The  housing  of  the  poor,  the  needs  of  old  age, 
the  ministrations  to  motherhood,  these  were  problems 
that  she  mastered  in  much  greater  details  than  I  was 
able  to  do.  When  I  told  Margaret  this,  she  said  that 
the  knowledge  was  all  in  the  family  and  she  would 
guard  it  so  that  we  might  act  upon  it  when  we  came 
to  America.  This,  indeed,  was  the  burden  of  all  our 
work.  We  were  not  in  London  as  mere  observers, 
mere  students  of  social  conditions.  We  were  there  to 
acquire  social  methods,  social  insight,  that  we  might 
the  better  serve  America.  I  was  so  glad  to  have  Mar 
garet  undertake  this  side  of  our  inquiry,  for  it  was  all 
vitally  important,  and  she  could  do  it  so  much  better 
than  ever  I  could.  Margaret  saw  the  personal  side, 
and  with  a  woman's  quick  wit  and  sympathy  set  about 
the  relief  of  the  individual.  I  am  always  tremendously 
sorry  for  the  individuals,  and  especially  for  the  aged 

341 


JOHN  PEECYFIELD 


poor,  —  God  help  them,  —  but  I  have  always  felt 
nevertheless  that  my  own  power  of  service  is  in  the 
direction  of  that  political  action  which  will  make  this 
suffering  less  possible.  Margaret,  with  her  warm  heart, 
stood  for  relief,  and  I,  with  something  of  my  grand 
father  Marston's  puritan  conscience  in  me,  stood  for 
prevention.  In  such  a  transition  time  as  the  present, 
there  is  large  need  of  both  types  of  service,  and  Mar 
garet  and  I  worked  together  admirably.  She  kept  my 
doctrines  human,  and  I  helped  to  keep  her  practice 
wise.  Many  of  the  problems,  touching  as  they  did 
both  individual  need  and  social  polity,  we  took  the 
keenest  pleasure  in  studying  out  together. 

Such  a  problem  was  the  pensioning  of  old  age.  It 
has  this  double  side  to  it,  the  appeal  for  human  sym 
pathy  and  the  need  of  wise  social  economy.  Mar 
garet  saw  at  once  the  added  self-respect  and  dignity 
and  happiness  of  the  poor  old  people,  could  they  live, 
however  frugally,  on  a  state  pension,  instead  of  de 
pending  on  the  unwilling  pittance  of  a  hard-pressed 
son  or  daughter,  or  still  worse,  instead  of  being  thrown 
on  the  poor  rates  or  relegated  to  the  poor-house.  I 
knew  of  what  Margaret  was  thinking.  She  was  think 
ing  of  Mrs.  Ravenel,  and  of  the  tragedy  which  might 
so  easily  have  befallen  her  had  age  and  illness  found 
her  without  money  and  without  friends.  My  own 
thought  rushed  along  with  Margaret's.  I  thought  of 
my  own  mother.  I  am  a  strong  man,  and  I  do  not 
often  weep,  but  the  tears  fill  my  eyes  when  I  recall 
the  sad,  patient,  suffering  faces  of  the  poor  old  women 

342 


AN  UNUSUAL  HONEYMOON 

whom  Margaret  and  I  saw  during  those  days  in  Lon 
don,  and  when  I  think  that  her  mother  or  mine  might 
have  been  one  of  these  poor,  despised  ones,  the  thought 
becomes  fairly  intolerable.  (What  are  we  men  of 
England  and  America  thinking  about  when  we  allow, 
in  the  midst  of  our  great  wealth,  such  indignity,  such 
keen  physical  suffering,  to  multitudes  of  old  women, 
the  mothers  of  a  large  part  of  the  brawn  and  muscle 
of  the  nation,  women  whose  age  and  whose  weakness 
make  the  most  touching  claim  upon  our  knightliness 
and  our  devotion  ?  And  how  do  we  meet  this  claim, 
we  fortunate  ones,  who  are  young  and  strong  and 
rich  ?  For  the  most  part,  we  ignore  it.  We  let  these 
women  suffer  cold  and  hunger  and  nakedness,  the 
bitter  dregs  of  poverty  and  loneliness.  We  let  them 
go  uncomforted  and  unattended  to  the  tomb.  God 
forgive  us,  and  put  it  into  our  hearts  and  hands  to  do 
something  more  worthy  of  our  manhood  and  our  hu 
manity  !  \ 

Margaret  is  naturally  less  interested  in  such  purely 
democratic  movements  as  the  taking  over  of  the  city 
tram-lines,  and  the  municipalizing  of  public  utilities 
generally,  for  they  are  more  abstract  and  less  immedi 
ately  human.  But  they  interest  me  vastly,  for  I  want 
to  see  such  extension  of  the  function  of  government 
that  it  may  bring  about  the  positive  freedom  of  the  in 
dividual,  and  not  merely  save  him  from  the  fate  of  the 
man  who  went  down  to  Jericho.  Although  Margaret  is 
always  ready  to  play  the  Good  Samaritan,  she  is  com 
ing  around  to  my  point  of  view  that  private  charities 

343 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


are  an  indictment  of  inadequate  social  action,  are 
essentially  undemocratic  and  undesirable.  We  lend 
a  hand  to  this  work  of  relief,  for  meanwhile  the  suf 
fering  is  here  and  may  not  decently  be  neglected,  but 
we  see  increasingly  that  this  method  is  not  the  way 
out.  The  function  of  the  state  is  to  make  private 
charities  unnecessary.  It  can  do  this  by  removing 
those  misfortunes  which  can  be  cured,  the  misfor 
tunes  of  ignorance  and  physical  defect  and  ill  health 
and  idleness;  and  by  honorably  providing  for  those 
misfortunes  which  cannot  be  removed,  the  misfortunes 
of  old  age  and  accident  and  illness. 

Most  of  the  social  problems  with  which  Margaret 
and  I  are  brought  in  contact  in  this  great,  unhappy 
London  have  both  of  these  elements  in  them,  the  indi 
vidual  and  the  collective,  and  while  temperamentally 
she  is  drawn  to  £he  one  and  I  to  the  other,  we  have 
large  common  ground  in  all  of  them.  For  me  the 
path  out  of  all  this  appalling  misery  is  the  most  un 
compromising  social  democracy,  the  administration  of 
the  earth  and  its  priceless  resources  for  human  good 
and  not  for  private  profit.  I  can  no  longer  believe 
that  any  decent  social  condition  will  ever  be  brought 
about  by  the  operation  of  what  is  politely  called 
"  enlightened  self-interest."  Practically,  this  enlight 
ened  self-interest  is  merely  a  world-wide  game  of  grab 
which  is  neither  enlightened  nor  is  it  self-interest,  for 
it  is  dreadfully  difficult  while  you  are  grabbing  to 
prevent  the  other  fellow  from  grabbing  back,  and 
there  is  the  deeper  tragedy  that  meanwhile  life  is 

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AN  UNUSUAL  HONEYMOON 

passing,  is  gone,  is  lost,  —  and  the   game  was   not 
worth  the  candle. 

There  was  a  gentler  home  side  to  our  London  life 
which  perhaps  helped  us  more  than  anything  else  to 
get  at  what  we  wanted.  I  had  had  a  second  purpose 
in  making  our  rooms  at  Torrington  Square  as  pleasant 
and  attractive  as  possible.  I  knew  that  Margaret 
would  not  at  all  care  to  go  into  society.  She  did 
not  put  on  the  traditional  heavy  mourning  for  Mrs. 
Ravenel.  It  seems  to  me  a  needless  cruelty  to  put 
these  hideous  barriers  of  crape  between  one's  self  and 
the  rest  of  the  world,  and  also  a  distinct  unkindness 
to  other  people.  Margaret  dressed  so  unobtrusively 
that  only  had  your  attention  been  called  to  it  would 
you  have  recognized  the  dress  as  mourning.  She 
wished  to  meet  the  social  workers  of  London,  and  so 
our  pleasant  drawing-room  soon  became  a  modest 
salon.  It  was  in  Torrington  Square  rather  than  in 
the  shabby  little  lecture  halls  which  we  occasionally 
frequented,  that  we  learned  most  about  London's 
problems,  and  the  methods  by  which  she  is  trying  to 
solve  them.  How  proud  I  was  of  my  dear  Margaret. 
A  natural  gravitation  seemed  to  bring  these  earnest, 
somewhat  hard-pressed  men  and  women  to  Margaret's 
salon,  and  I  am  sure  that  they  found  here  a  sweet 
refreshment  which  quite  compensated  them  for  their 
kindness  in  coming  to  us.  Twice  a  week,  on  Wednes 
day  and  Sunday  evenings,  we  have  been  regularly  at 
home.  If  the  evening  was  at  all  chilly,  we  had  a 
cheerful  fire  of  English  sea-coal  blazing  on  our  hearth. 

345 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


Some  sweet  fresh  flowers  stood  on  the  table.  The 
lamps  were  carefully  shaded.  And  in  the  midst  was 
Margaret,  looking  to  me  like  some  sweet  saint  come 
down  from  heaven,  and  to  the  Londoners  who  gathered 
around  her,  surely  one  of  the  most  charming  of  the 
many  charming  women  who  have  held  court  in  Lon 
don  drawing-rooms.  We  maintained  the  habit  of  the 
monologue.  In  this  way,  I  think,  we  gave  of  our 
best,  and  got  the  very  best  from  our  guests. 

Other  evenings  of  the  week  we  had  one  or  two  peo 
ple  to  dinner.  Our  establishment  was  too  modest  to 
permit  any  extensive  entertaining,  even  had  we  been 
in  the  mood  for  it,  and  I  have  always  preferred  these 
small  dinner  parties,  informal  and  frequent,  to  the 
most  astounding  extravagances  that  Mr.  Boldt  or  Del- 
monico  can  get  up.  Aunt  Viney  was  quite  in  her 
element  and  willingly  acted  as  the  chef.  I  think  she 
has  the  genuine  social  instinct.  It  seemed  to  be  a 
great  relief  to  the  old  woman  to  be  hard  at  work,  and 
so  Margaret  let  her  do  as  much  as  she  would.  Aunt 
Viney  made  our  table  resemble  New  Orleans  cookery 
as  nearly  as  the  London  markets  would  allow.  It 
was  amusing,  too,  to  see  what  delight  Aunt  Viney 
took  in  the  English  language,  after  her  enforced 
silence  on  the  Continent.  She  talked  to  every  one 
who  came  in  her  way,  and  completely  scandalized  the 
wooden  English  servants  by  her  lengthy  conversations 
with  Margaret  and  me.  Sometimes  our  dinner  guests 
remained  a  part  of  the  evening,  sometimes  they  accom 
panied  us  if  we  happened  to  be  going  out,  sometimes 

346 


AN  UNUSUAL   HONEYMOON 

they  left  shortly  after  dinner  to  keep  engagements  of 
their  own.  London  affairs  begin  so  late  that  by  being 
prompt,  we  could  manage  a  successful  little  dinner 
party,  and  still  have  the  evening  for  other  things  or 
for  our  reading.  I  think  that  Margaret  and  I  met 
some  of  the  most  delightful  men  in  London  that  we 
can  ever  hope  to  meet  anywhere.  There  was  a  whole- 
someness  and  courtesy  about  them  that  constantly  re 
minded  me  of  my  grandfather  Percyfield  as  he  must 
have  been  when  a  young  man.  Many  of  them  still 
remembered  Charlotte  and  the  summer  she  spent  in 
England.  Some  of  the  men  from  Toynbee  Hall  came 
to  us,  and  many  of  our  friends  from  Clement's  Inn. 

It  was  a  curious  and  unusual  honeymoon  that  Mar 
garet  and  I  had  in  London.  I  kept  Margaret  almost 
pitilessly  occupied,  for  I  knew  that  it  was  the  greater 
kindness.  It  would  have  been  quite  impossible  to 
go  pleasuring  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.  It 
would  have  been  unwise  to  go  home.  Our  home, 
like  our  wedding  day,  I  wanted  to  be  established  in 
happiness.  And  our  children,  when  they  came,  I 
wanted  to  be  conceived  in  joy  and  not  in  sorrow. 

Margaret  was  bravery  itself ;  but  she  had  received 
a  wound  that  nothing  but  time  and  love  and  service 
could  heal.  Our  life  in  London  was  absolutely  dis 
interested,  but  it  brought  us  such  deep  happiness  that 
I  am  tempted  to  write,  not  as  an  epigram,  but  as  a 
practical  maxim  of  life  that  the  most  complete  unself 
ishness  is  also  the  most  successful  selfishness.  And 
this  must  always  be  so.  The  personal  career,  limited 

347 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


to  this  one  world-life,  this  one  incarnation,  is  absolutely 
doomed  to  disappointment.  It  is  a  story  in  which  the 
losses  exceed  the  gains.  Our  dear  ones  die ;  our 
affairs  get  tangled ;  our  powers  wane ;  health  and 
youth  are  spent ;  the  hearing  dulls,  the  eye  weakens, 
the  emotions  are  worn  ;  one  tragedy  succeeds  another, 
—  it  is  a  losing  game.  But  when  one's  interests  are 
concentrated  on  something  bigger  than  the  immediate 
personal  career,  upon  the  social  good,  upon  the  larger 
existence  in  time  and  space,  upon  the  cosmic  career  of 
the  purified  soul,  it  is  possible  to  be  eternally,  youth 
fully  happy.  This  supreme  happiness  came  to  Mar 
garet  as  it  had  once  come,  after  months  of  keen  suf 
fering,  to  me.  No  selfish  idling  could  have  brought 
it,  no  dangling  in  museums  and  galleries,  no  aimless 
wandering  in  the  mountains  or  by  the  sea,  no  selfish 
pursuit  of  any  kind  whatever.  It  comes  only  through 
human  service  and  human  sympathy  and  human  out- 
reaching  towards  that  which  is  eternal  and  divine. 
This  life  among  the  social  workers  of  London,  this 
daily  contact  with  the  suffering  poor,  did  more  to 
assure  Margaret  of  the  immortality  of  love  and  life 
than  could  any  abstract  philosophy  of  mine.  And 
when  at  last  we  turned  our  faces  towards  America,  we 
went  to  it  chastened  by  a  common  sorrow,  but  illu 
mined  by  a  common  hope. 


348 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    GEEAT   REPUBLIC 

ONE  who  reads  the  alluring  booklets  of  the  steam 
ship  companies  might  think  that  quite  the  most  de 
lightful  thing  in  all  the  world  would  be  to  cross  the 
Atlantic  in  some  floating  palace,  such  as  is  pictured  in 
this  oceanic  literature.  But  it  is  well  to  add  still  an 
other  grain  of  salt.  In  point  of  statistics  I  believe  it 
is  one  of  the  safest  things  to  do,  much  safer  than  to 
travel  on  the  average  American  express  train.  But 
though  these  booklets  are  optimistic  in  their  view  of  life, 
and  though  the  floating  palaces,  under  certain  condi 
tions  of  the  system  and  the  weather,  may  be  very  uncom 
fortable  places,  it  still  remains  true  that  the  present 
passenger  fleet  of  the  Atlantic,  if  gathered  together  in 
one  roadstead,  would  make,  by  all  odds,  the  most  im 
pressive  navy  that  the  world  has  ever  seen.  Now  that 
Margaret  and  I  are  back  at  Uplands,  I  have  crossed 
the  Atlantic  six  times,  but  I  cannot  see  one  of  these 
splendid  steamers,  with  their  graceful  lines  and  beau 
tiful  finish  and  implied  speed,  without  as  much  of  a 
thrill  as  swept  over  me  the  very  first  time  that  Char 
lotte  and  I  ever  crossed  the  ocean.  There  is  some 
thing  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  blood  that  still  responds  to 

349 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


the  dash  of  the  waves  and  the  sniff  of  salt  air.  It 
has  made  us  a  colonizing  people  and  is  perhaps  partly 
responsible  for  our  imperialism.  The  English  are  our 
modern  Phoenicians,  with  Mr.  Kipling  as  their  exult 
ant  bard.  But  even  a  quiet  gentleman  like  myself, 
who  does  not  go  in  for  either  trade  or  imperialism,  is 
conscious  of  a  decided  thrill  when  the  waves  dash 
high  and  the  salt  air  blows  stiff  and  keen.  The  original 
thrill  deepens,  in  fact,  for  since  that  first  crossing  I 
have  been  working  at  odd  moments  over  a  new  scheme 
of  water  propulsion.  When  the  scheme  is  perfected  I 
shall  be  having  a  yacht  of  my  own,  big  enough  to 
cross  the  Atlantic,  or  for  that  matter  to  go  around  the 
world  in,  should  such  a  trip  seem  necessary  and  profit 
able.  The  study  of  life  is  so  fascinating  that  you  never 
know  where  it  will  carry  you.  Margaret  calls  it  our 
vocation,  this  study  of  life. 

The  yacht  has  not  been  built,  not  even  committed 
to  paper,  for  I  have  not  got  to  it  yet.  But  it  has  an 
increasingly  distinct  outline  in  my  imagination,  and  I 
foresee  that  it  may  become  one  of  those  realities  of  the 
mind,  which,  almost  in  r>pite  of  one's  self,  must  pass 
out  into  three  dimensions.  It  is  dangerous  to  enter 
tain  ideas  which  one  would  not  care  to  have  blossom 
into  facts,  for  an  earnest  man,  as  I  have  been  saying 
all  along,  is  pretty  sure  to  get  what  he  really  wants. 
It  is  so  with  my  yacht.  I  do  not  quite  accept  the  idea 
yet,  for  there  are  several  other  things  that  I  want  to 
accomplish  first.  But  it  is  beginning  to  loom  up  as  a 
possibility.  I  think  of  it  as  you  do  of  places  still 

350 


THE   GREAT   REPUBLIC 


some  distance  ahead  on  the  time-table.  You  must 
pass  over  the  intervening  ground  and  it  is  always  pos 
sible  that  you  may  get  off  at  one  of  the  intervening 
stations,  and  so  the  distant  place  remains  but  a  name, 
a  possibility  made  impossible  by  some  other  decision. 
That  is  the  way  it  is  with  the  "  Maxwell,"  for  such  is 
the  name  that  I  have  given  to  my  nebulous  yacht.  She 
is  named  after  Clerk  Maxwell,  the  greatest  scientist  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  You  may  remember  about 
him,  the  quiet  Scottish  gentleman  who  worked  out  the 
identity  of  light  and  electricity ;  but  perhaps  not,  for 
the  names  of  these  profound  investigators  are  often 
less  known  than  those  of  the  smaller  men  who  have 
popularized  their  results.  Both  types  are  necessary 
and  honorable,  but  for  the  genius  I  have  myself  a 
reverence  which  is  even  religious.  It  seems  to  me 
a  godlike  thing  to  be  original  and  to  push  out  even 
a  little  bit  into  the  unknown. 

The  Maxwell  is  the  most  rapid,  as  well  as  the  most 
beautiful  craft  that  ever  made  light  of  latitude  and 
longtitude.  I  have  rated  her  speed  at  a  hundred  miles 
an  hour,  and  this  would  put  you  in  New  York  from 
Southampton  in  twenty-one  hours,  but  if  you  went 
against  the  sun,  from  New  York  to  Southampton,  it 
would  take  you  thirty-one,  as  the  steeple  clocks  would 
count  the  matter.  When  the  musician,  whose  mathe 
matical  tendencies  are  pronounced  and  sometimes 
troublesome,  asks  me  on  what  data  I  have  calculated 
the  speed,  I  must  needs  answer  that  one  hundred  is  a 
tidy  number,  the  square  of  ten,  and  all  that  sort  of 

351 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


thing,  and  rests  on  more  poetic  grounds  than  mere 
questions  of  pressure  and  resistance. 

But  as  I  have  said,  the  Maxwell  is  still  in  the 
future.  It  was  only  that  all  her  details  pressed  in  upon 
me  that  morning  when  Margaret  and  I  deserted  our 
pleasant  quarters  in  Torrington  Square,  and  put  our 
selves  in  the  way  of  coming  to  America.  Our  steamer 
was  one  of  the  biggest  and  whitest  and  most  beautiful 
of  all  the  predecessors  of  the  Maxwell.  She  boasts  a 
very  high  and  mighty  name  on  the  sailing  list  of  the 
company,  but  most  of  the  steamers  in  the  trans- 
Atlantic  service  which  have  attained  to  any  distinc 
tion  and  character  have  also  a  second  name  by  which 
they  are  known  in  the  inner  circle  of  esoteric  globe 
trotters.  Ours  was  long  ago  christened  the  "  White 
Seal,"  and  though  no  champagne  went  the  wrong  way  at 
this  second  christening  and  no  magnate's  little  daugh 
ter  smashed  a  bottle  so  far  front  as  the  bow,  it  is  by 
this  second  name  that  Margaret  and  I  know  and  love 
the  piece  of  three-dimensional  poetry  which  brought 
us  back  to  the  Great  Kepublic.  The  White  Seal 
seemed  to  us  indeed  more  like  a  private  yacht  than  a 
mere  winner  of  dividends. 

It  was  the  middle  of  October  when  Margaret  and 
I  left  England.  The  day  was  fair,  with  that  ripe,  blue 
haziness  which  in  the  autumn  bespeaks  Nature's  con 
tentment  with  accomplished  work.  The  task  of  pro 
viding  food  for  her  millions  of  children  had  been 
successfully  performed,  as  you  could  easily  see  by 
looking  in  at  the  open  doors  of  the  well-filled  barns, 

352 


THE   GREAT   REPUBLIC 


or  better  still,  into  the  rosy,  satisfied  faces  of  the 
farmers.  It  was  not  yet  in  season  for  the  sap  to  be 
running  into  fresh  bud  and  leaf,  or  for  the  earth  and 
sky  to  be  bringing  forth  their  children  of  blade  and 
ear.  Nature  was  at  rest,  and  her  quiescent  loveliness 
seemed  brooding  over  the  English  landscape  like  a 
visible  presence,  a  benediction  before  the  fog  and 
storm,  the  labor  and  care  out  of  which  was  to  be  born 
the  harvest  of  another  year. 

This  aspect  of  the  world  fell  in  well  with  Marga 
ret's  mood  and  mine.  Our  present  work  was  done. 
Like  Nature,  we  were  drawing  the  full  breath  of  an 
autumnal  parenthesis.  Our  English  sojourn  had 
brought  us  a  much  larger  harvest  than  we  had  had  the 
wit  to  foresee,  and  in  our  hearts  we  felt  very,  very 
rich.  In  us,  at  least,  the  Anglo-American  alliance  was 
an  accomplished  fact.  We  shall  never  again  be  able 
to  look  upon  England  as  an  alien  country.  We  shall 
deplore  her  political  blunders,  her  lapses  in  diplomatic 
faith,  her  unrighteousness  in  the  cause  of  imperialism, 
her  unmitigated  spirit  of  trade.  We  shall  even  go  on 
being  amused  at  some  of  her  people,  at  their  obtuse- 
ness,  at  their  lack  of  humor,  at  their  provincial  and 
childlike  assurance  of  superiority,  at  their  feeble  im 
agination.  But  deeper  than  our  criticism  is  our  love. 
We  feel  the  Anglo-Saxon  brotherhood,  the  kinship  of 
a  large  purpose.  We  shall  remember  as  long  as  we 
draw  breath  those  earnest  men  and  women  at  Mans 
field  House,  at  Toynbee  Hall,  at  Clement's  Inn,  in  the 
few  London  homes  into  which  we  penetrated.  We 

353 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


are  glad  to  speak  the  same  mother  tongue  as  the 
modest,  learned  men  whom  we  met  at  Oxford  and 
Cambridge;  of  the  noble  canon  who  moved  heaven 
and  earth  to  secure  a  scandalously  rich  living  and 
then  had  the  stipend  cut  down  to  a  suitable  amount ; 
of  the  two  sisters  we  met  on  the  Isle  of  Wight,  living 
so  successfully  the  life  beautiful ;  and  of  dozens  of  other 
fine  souls,  an  ornament  to  our  common  blood  and  our 
common  humanity. 

But  my  own  deepest  gratitude  to  London  is  for  a 
very  practical  lesson  I  learned  there.  You  know  that 
social  reformers,  aristocratic  as  well  as  plebeian,  are 
a  bit  given  to  the  sophomoric,  and  want  to  make  hea 
ven  without  the  voyage.  To  be  quite  honest,  Mr. 
John  Percyfield,  of  Uplands,  Chester  County,  Penn 
sylvania,  has  not  always  escaped  this  weakness  of  his 
class.  It  is  too  much  to  say  that  London,  even  in  two 
months  can  knock  all  that  out  of  a  man  ;  but  it  warns 
him.  The  jolly  way  the  Fabians  had  of  laughing  at 
themselves,  and  the  splendid  good  nature  they  brought 
to  their  quarrel  with  existing  evils,  was  to  me  a  valu 
able  object  lesson,  for  my  own  virtue  is  of  the  indig 
nant  sort,  spending  too  much  of  its  force  in  heat. 
The  Fabians  have  a  genuine  millennium  programme 
tucked  away  in  the  back  of  their  heads,  and  down  deep 
in  their  hearts,  but  they  keep  it  in  the  background 
instead  of  in  the  foreground  of  their  effort,  and  this 
bit  of  wisdom  makes  the  difference  between  success 
and  defeat.  Meanwhile,  they  are  after  the  milkman 
and  the  butcher  and  the  gas  company  and  the  water 

354 


THE   GREAT  REPUBLIC 


supply  and  the  tramways  and  the  unearned  increment, 
and  are  bent  on  socializing  public  opinion  and  private 
practice,  slowly,  if  need  be,  but  still  on  socializing  it. 
The  hot  bloods  call  all  this  opportunism,  but  as  long 
as  this  means  lending  an  honest  hand  to  helpful,  prac 
tical  measures,  however  immediate  and  limited,  it  is  a 
taunt  that  can  well  be  borne.  The  Fabian  essays  are 
good  reading  for  a  man  who  wants  really  to  serve  and 
not  merely  to  fizz. 

So  Margaret  and  I  went  on  board  the  White  Seal 
in  high  spirits,  not  outwardly  exuberant  as  we  might 
have  been  a  few  months  earlier,  but  with  that  sub 
dued  excitement  which  shows  itself  in  sparkling  eye 
and  heightened  color.  We  were  literally  on  top  of 
the  wave. 

You  may  call  it  a  lover's  prejudice  if  you  like,  but 
that  morning,  when  we  mounted  the  gangplank  which 
carried  us  out  of  Europe,  it  seemed  to  me  that  Mar 
garet  had  never  looked  so  beautiful.  She  was  excited 
at  the  prospect  of  going  home,  and,  furthermore,  her 
beauty  had  a  certain  maturity  about  it.  Had  Mar 
garet  been  less  beautiful  than  when  I  married  her,  I 
should  have  been  sadly  distressed,  for  it  would  have 
seemed  to  me  that  our  married  life  had  some  unmis 
takable  flaw  in  it.  I  should  think  that  husbands,  in 
whose  daily  presence  wives  lose  their  beauty  and  at 
tractiveness,  would  feel  as  much  rebuked  as  if  Nature 
had  spoken  to  them  openly.  This  human  fading  is  a 
bitter  tragedy.  We  must  all  grow  old,  but  there  is 
a  beauty  for  every  age,  and  if  we  miss  it,  there  is  some- 

355 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


thing  wrong.  We  may  not  keep  the  bloom  of  spring, 
but  we  may  lay  claim  to  the  loveliness  of  summer,  the 
glory  of  the  autumn,  and  that  solemn  whiteness  of  the 
winter  that  goes  before  the  resurrection.  Whatever 
my  own  prejudices  may  have  been,  however,  the  other 
passengers  could  not  be  accused  of  sharing  them,  and 
their  undisguised  admiration  would  have  told  me  that 
Margaret  is  a  very  beautiful  woman,  had  I  needed  any 
outer  testimony. 

Aunt  Viney,  of  course,  was  with  us.  She  is  mor 
tally  afraid  of  the  water.  I  am  sure  that  every  night 
and  morning,  and  many  times  during  the  day,  she 
prayed  most  fervently  that  the  ship  might  not  go  to 
the  bottom.  But  in  spite  of  her  fear  she  was  as  de 
lighted  as  Margaret  and  I  to  be  coming  back  to 
America. 

The  voyage  was  absolutely  uneventful.  Day  after 
day  the  sun  illumined  its  shortening  portion.  Night 
after  night  the  stars  laid  claim  to  the  lengthening 
darkness.  Margaret  and  I  spent  all  our  time  on  deck. 
The  steamer,  fortunately,  was  not  crowded,  and  it  was 
easy  to  find  a  quiet  spot  where  we  could  place  our 
steamer  chairs  side  by  side,  and  there,  wrapped  in  our 
warm  rugs,  we  would  sit  by  the  hour,  reading  aloud 
or  talking,  or  even  in  complete  and  friendly  silence. 
It  was  a  delight  to  feel  that  no  interruption  could 
come  to  us.  There  are  people,  you  know,  who  expe 
rience  an  ennui  on  board  ship  which  they  say  is  worse 
than  seasickness.  They  have  n't  Margaret  at  their 
side,  and,  perhaps,  not  so  very  much  in  their  heads 

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THE   GREAT  REPUBLIC 


either.  Margaret  and  I  are  both  good  sailors.  I 
used  to  be  a  pretty  poor  one,  but  that  was  before  I 
knew  any  better.  I  am  afraid  we  were  not  very  socia 
ble.  After  the  first  day  or  two,  it  came  to  be  recog 
nized  apparently  that  we  were  wedding-journeyers, 
and  we  were  let  alone  with  a  scrupulousness  that  got 
to  be  amusing.  For  persons  of  such  pronounced 
social  instincts  as  Margaret  and  I,  this  reserve  might 
have  been  reprehensible,  but  from  the  bits  of  conver 
sation  we  did  catch,  it  seemed  that  there  were  enough 
persons  on  board  bent  on  personal  narrative  to  make 
the  most  sphinx-like  silence  on  our  part  not  only  for 
givable,  but  even  meritorious.  When  you  are  at 
sea,  you  are  all  in  the  same  boat,  as  Charlotte,  the 
humorist,  puts  it,  and  this  fact  seems  to  invite  the 
most  astonishing  confidences.  When  friendship  moves 
at  too  rapid  a  rate  it  is  apt  to  spend  itself  and  grow 
weary. 

Margaret  and  I  lived  in  such  delightful  isolation, 
that  we  might  almost  have  been  on  an  island.  But 
it  might  not  have  been  a  desert  island,  for  we  should 
sadly  have  missed  the  ministrations  of  the  deck  stew 
ard.  At  eleven,  he  brought  us  bouillon  and  hardtack ; 
at  four,  he  appeared  with  hot  tea  and  little  triangular 
sandwiches.  Margaret  did  not  quite  approve  of  my 
method  of  counting,  but  in  reality  we  ate  five  meals  a 
day,  aside  from  any  crackers  or  fruit  which  might  dis 
appear  in  our  stateroom  during  the  process  of  dress 
ing.  The  larder  of  the  Maxwell  will  have  to  be  very 
commodious.  In  fact  our  appetites  were  so  keen  that 

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JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


I  had  to  invent  a  theory  to  account  for  them,  and 
even  to  excuse  them.  A  wholesome  appetite  is  a  good 
thing,  but  one  would  blush  a  little  to  be  accounted 
ravenous.  At  sea,  however,  the  constant  vibration 
digests  your  food  rapidly,  and  makes  it  entirely  decent 
and  reasonable  to  eat  twice  as  much  as  would  keep 
you  going  on  land.  Such,  at  least,  is  my  theory,  and 
it  has  brought  comfort  to  a  number  of  persons  at  once 
scrupulous  and  very  hungry. 

Before  ever  I  crossed  the  ocean,  I  supposed  that 
one  was  constantly  coming  up  with  other  gay  ships  of 
the  line,  and  even  passing  the  time  of  day  with  them. 
I  was  amazed,  appalled,  almost  terrified  by  the  awful 
loneliness  of  the  ocean.  Even  now  it  never  ceases  to 
impress  me.  Margaret  and  I  were  on  the  most  fre 
quented  of  all  ocean  routes,  and  yet  a  whole  day  would 
pass  when  we  did  not  catch  a  glimpse  of  another 
steamer,  or  even  of  the  dim  white  sails  of  some  loiter 
ing  ship.  Occasionally,  we  saw  a  school  of  porpoises, 
true  Frbbelians,  since  their  school  consisted  of  well- 
ordered  and  wholesome  play.  Once,  we  caught  sight 
of  a  spouting  whale,  but  we  were  unable  to  answer 
when,  later,  the  irrepressible  Charlotte  asked  what  he 
was  spouting  about.  Then  there  was  a  diminutive 
piece  of  ice,  called  by  courtesy  an  iceberg,  but  the 
captain  had  more  respect  for  it  than  we  did,  for  he 
steered  well  out  of  its  way.  He  had  in  mind  the 
nine  tenths  or  eight  ninths  or  some  other  vulgar  frac 
tion  of  it  that  remained  under  water,  and  might  be  a 
source  of  danger. 

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THE   GREAT  REPUBLIC 


But  it  was  at  night  that  the  mystery  and  loneliness 
of  the  ocean  pressed  in  upon  us.  We  had  no  moon 
save  a  dainty  little  wisp  of  a  new  moon  towards  the 
end  of  the  voyage.  Margaret  and  I  used  to  have  our 
chairs  taken  to  the  upper  deck,  and  there  in  the  dark 
ness  and  the  silence  we  felt  the  elation  of  rushing 
noiselessly  through  space.  All  artificial  lights  were 
veiled,  the  skylights  even  were  shrouded  in  heavy  can 
vas,  so  that  the  officer  on  the  bridge  might  the  better 
discern  the  lights  of  any  passing  ship.  We  had  only 
the  stars  for  company  and  the  soft  rush  of  water  far 
below  against  the  ship's  sides.  We  found  this  infi 
nitely  better  than  any  concert  they  could  get  up  down 
in  the  cabin.  I  am  so  happy  that  Margaret  is  an  out 
door  woman.  I  foresee  that  we  shall  spend  the  greater 
part  of  our  lives  in  the  open.  We  seemed  very  much 
outdoors  on  that  upper  deck  of  the  White  Seal,  and 
the  exultation  of  it  took  great  hold  upon  us.  When 
we  were  not  snugly  wrapped  in  our  rugs,  and  in  our 
comfortable  steamer  chairs,  we  were  walking  briskly 
up  and  down  the  decks,  or  were  established  for  the 
moment  out  in  the  very  bow,  watching  the  phosphores 
cent  fire,  as  the  ship  leaped  forwards  to  meet  the  on 
coming  waves. 

It  is  possible  in  eight  days  to  do  a  great  deal  of 
talking.  And  Margaret  and  I  had  much  to  talk 
about,  —  of  our  chance  meeting  at  the  Chateau,  of  the 
wonder  of  our  awakening  love,  about  Mrs.  Ravenel, 
of  our  London  experiences,  and  the  books  we  were 
reading.  But  most  of  all  we  spoke  of  America,  and 

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JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


of  the  new  life  that  we  were  soon  to  be  living"  here. 

O 

Beyond  the  fact  that  our  home  was  to  be  in  the  coun 
try,  near  Uplands  if  possible,  and  that  we  were  to  be 
devoting  ourselves  to  the  idealizing  of  the  daily  life, 
and  to  the  practical  work  of  loving  the  neighbor,  we 
had  no  plans.  We  were  en  route  to  the  unexpected 
quite  as  much  as  I  was  when  I  went  to  Europe.  It 
was  the  old  quest,  the  quest  of  the  indeterminate  good. 
With  Margaret  at  my  side,  I  had  no  end  of  hope.  As 
the  little  flag  on  the  chart  in  the  companionway  that 
marked  our  daily  run  crept  slowly  westward,  I  felt 
an  ever-deepening  passion  for  America,  for  the  dear 
fatherland,  and  for  the  possibility  of  service  here.  It 
seems  to  me  a  great  thing  to  be  an  American,  to  be 
young  and  strong  and  free,  to  have  the  heart  and  quali 
fications  to  take  hold  of  things,  and  to  make  the  des 
tiny  of  my  dear  country  somewhat  more  glorious  and 
more  righteous  than  it  might  have  been  without  me. 
Never  a  country  better  deserved  a  man's  passionate 
love,  nor  more  deeply  needed  his  wise  service.  Every 
nation  born  of  time  and  destiny  has  failed.  At  the 
height  of  its  power  it  has  seemed  invincible.  Yet 
every  time  there  has  been  some  poison  in  the  blood 
that  has  paralyzed  the  once-strong  hand  and  unnerved 
the  once-valiant  heart.  But  America  is  new-born.  It 
occupies  a  virgin  continent.  It  has  not  been  formed 
from  the  wreck  of  spent  dynasties.  I  find  it  not 
grotesque  to  fancy  that  the  gods  themselves  are  look 
ing  down  upon  our  new  method  of  playing  out  the 
world  game,  wondering  with  bated  breath  whether 

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THE   GREAT  REPUBLIC 


soberly  and  righteously  we  will  carry  America  into 
the  power  of  peace  and  brotherhood,  or  whether  dis 
solutely  and  drunkenly  we  will  plunge  her  into  the  ruin 
of  denied  humanity,  the  one  abyss  which  has  swal 
lowed  every  other  nation  that  has  ever  been  and  now 
is  not.  If  America  would  only  see,  if  she  would  dash 
aside  the  black  bandage  of  selfishness  and  greed,  if 
she  would  resolutely  put  aside  the  tempter,  and  know 
that  as  long  as  time  itself  endures  there  is  but  one 
path  to  success,  the  perfect  path  of  love  and  justice 
and  brotherhood,  what  might  America,  my  own  Amer 
ica,  not  do  !  Empires  have  come  and  gone,  —  God's 
truth  endures.  There  is  but  one  kingdom  which  is 
eternal.  It  is  the  kingdom  of  love,  and  love  is  that 
larger  term  which  includes  justice  and  generosity  and 
brotherhood.  Fate,  destiny,  old  age,  sickness,  poverty, 
crucifixion,  death,  all  the  malignant  forces  of  supersti 
tion  and  cruelty  cannot  prevent  the  success  of  the  man 
who  follows  the  method  of  this  kingdom,  of  the  man 
whose  heart  is  bent  on  something  larger  than  the 
assertion  of  the  self,  of  the  man  who  is  unselfish,  of 
the  man  who  loves. 

It  would  be  the  same  with  nations. 

Margaret  and  I  had  been  sitting  in  silence  for 
some  time  while  all  these  thoughts  were  running 
through  my  head.  My  eyes  were  closed. 

Margaret  leaned  over  and  said  very  softly,  "  John, 
are  you  asleep  ?  "  For  answer  I  opened  my  eyes  very 
wide  and  showed  her  how  little  sleep  there  was  in 
them.  "  Shall  I  interrupt  if  I  talk  to  you  ?  " 

361 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


I  laughed  at  the  possibility,  —  as  if  Margaret  ever 
could  interrupt  me,  —  and  answered,  "  Margaret,  you 
designing  one,  you  want  a  compliment.  You  know 
you  never  could  interrupt,  if  you  tried  ever  so  hard. 
Talk  to  me,  and  the  longer  the  better." 

"  Perhaps  you  won't  like  it  so  well  when  you  know 
what  I  am  going  to  say.  I  was  just  wondering,  John, 
whether  you  were  consistent." 

I  laughed  again,  and  right  merrily,  —  as  if  any  one, 
man  or  woman,  under  the  wide  canopy  of  heaven,  ever 
was  consistent.  "  I  think  not,  dear  heart,"  I  answered. 
"  You  know  what  Emerson  says,  '  With  consistency 
the  great  soul  has  nothing  to  do.' ' 

"  That 's  very  good  in  the  abstract,  and  will  do  to 
apply  to  some  one  else,  but  hardly  to  one's  self." 

"  Tell  me,  then,  just  what  you  mean." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you  and  Peyton.  You  are  both 
of  you  born  aristocrats,  if  there  ever  were  any." 

"  Granted,  dear  lady,  and  I  have  never  recovered. 
But  what  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  this.  I  was  wondering  how  you  make  it  all 
square  with  your  democracy,  for  I  know  you  are  sin 
cere  in  both.  How  can  one  be  an  aristocrat  and  a 
socialist  at  the  same  time.  It  does  n't  seem  to  me 
entirely  consistent." 

"  I  'm  not  half  so  frightened  as  I  expected  to  be,"  I 
answered  gayly.  "  I  was  willing  to  plead  guilty  to  the 
charge  of  inconsistency,  on  general  principles.  We 
are  all  of  us  more  or  less  inconsistent.  But  really 
in  this  matter  I  'm  perfectly  consistent.  I  'm  a  thor- 

362 


THE   GREAT   REPUBLIC 


oughgoing  aristocrat,  and  can  never  be  anything  else 
as  long  as  the  Percyfield  blood  runs  true,  a  regular 
conservative  in  some  things,  a  believer  in  noblesse 
oblige,  a  disbeliever  in  trade,  a  counter  of  breeding 
above  everything  else  in  all  the  world.  But  so  are 
you,  dear  Margaret,  or  you  would  not  be  a  Ravenel." 

"  Yes,  of  course,  but  I  am  also  the  wife  of  a  very 
hot  democrat.  Tell  me  how  we  can  be  both  at 
once?" 

When  Margaret  says  '  we '  in  this  charming  way 
I  am  seized  with  a  very  strong  desire  to  catch  her  up 
in  my  arms  and  kiss  her.  But  the  officer  on  the 
bridge  had  his  eye  on  us  and  I  was  obliged  to  refrain. 
"  It  seems  to  me  this  way.  To  believe  in  excellence 
is  to  be  an  aristocrat.  To  believe  in  it  for  all  people 
is  to  be  a  democrat.  There  you  have  it  in  a  nutshell. 
The  older  aristocrats  wanted  all  the  excellence  for 
themselves,  and  built  walls  about  it  and  digged  ditches. 
It  was  the  excellence  of  privilege.  You  and  I  don't 
want  that "  — 

"  Surely  not,"  said  Margaret  hastily. 

—  "  We  want  the  utmost  measure  of  individual  good 
that  we  can  possibly  get.  It  is  the  quest  to  which  we 
have  pledged  our  lives.  We  call  it  indeterminate,  so 
as  to  make  it  bigger,  much  bigger,  than  anything  that 
we  can  see.  I  am  a  modern  knight  clad  in  Scotch 
homespun  instead  of  nasty,  clinking  mail,  and  you  are 
a  modern  gentle,  clad,  —  let  me  see,  —  well  just  as  a 
gentle  ought  to  be.  Instead  of  sitting  at  home  in 
a  high  tower,  back  of  a  casement  window,  weeping 

363 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


your  pretty  eyes  out  lest  some  harm  befall  Sir  Gala 
had,  you  go  along  by  his  side,  and  together,  sweet 
comrade,  we  go  to  seek  the  Holy  Grail.  Is  it  not 
so?" 

The  pressure  of  Margaret's  hand  was  my  answer. 

"  But  we  want  everybody  else  to  join  in  the  quest  and 
be  just  as  happy  as  we  are,  and  find  life  just  as  great 
a  go.  And  we  want  this  partly  because  our  hearts  are 
gentle,  and  God's  love  is  in  them,  and  partly  because 
we  see  that  the  path  of  the  quest  for  ourselves  is  the 
path  of  service.  As  we  are  not  at  all  the  hermit  type 
of  person,  —  except  perhaps  on  the  White  Seal,  —  the 
greater  part  of  our  life  is  made  up  of  our  relations  to 
other  people,  and  to  idealize  our  own  lives  we  must 
idealize  our  relations  with  others.  If  we  did  not  care 
about  the  neighbor  for  himself,  we  should  still  have 
to  care  about  him  and  very  genuinely,  or  else  miss  the 
Path.  Then,  too,  there  is  another  point.  It  is  this  : 
we  breathe  the  social  atmosphere  of  our  time.  No 
man  can  get  much  beyond  his  fellows.  However  clean 
we  may  keep  our  own  house,  we  are  open  to  contagion 
if  our  neighbor  lives  in  filth.  Every  evil  thing  that  is 
done  in  the  world  lowers  the  moral  tone  of  the  world 
by  just  so  much,  and  makes  our  own  lives  so  much 
the  less  ideal.  On  all  sides  there  are  reaction  and 
social  solidarity.  Salvation  to  be  complete  must  come 
to  all." 

"  It  is  a  hard  saying,  that  last,"  said  Margaret, 
"and  yet  on  the  whole,  I  think  I  believe  it.  But 
what  about  the  neighbor  who  has  n't  yet  got  the  ex- 

364 


THE   GREAT   REPUBLIC 


cellence  ?  What  becomes  of  your  doctrine  of  equal 
ity  ?  " 

"  My  doctrine  of  equality,  my  dear,"  I  answered 
quickly.  "  /  never  believed  such  a  monstrous  lie  as 
equality.  I  believe,  on  the  contrary,  in  the  most  ap 
palling  inequality.  There  are  thousands  of  men  bet 
ter  than  I  am  "  —  "  No,  there  are  not,"  said  Margaret, 
loyally  —  "  There  are  thousands  of  men  better  than  I 
am,  and  there  are  millions  not  so  good.  I  should  be 
a  precious  hypocrite,  if  I  said  otherwise.  We  are 
travelers  on  the  same  road,  the  road  from  nothing 
ness  to  God,  and  some  have  got  further  on,  and  some 
less  far.  The  democracy  that  starts  out  with  a  lie, 
the  lie  of  calling  us  all  equal,  has  nothing  in  common 
with  aristocracy,  or,  for  that  matter,  with  common  de 
cency  and  truthfulness.  One  might  as  well  go  to  a 
horse  fair,  and  maintain  that  the  plough-horses  and 
thoroughbreds  were  quite  equal  and  must  all  fetch  the 
same  price.  In  practical  matters  of  horseflesh,  the 
world  is  not  so  silly.  It  knows  the  value  of  breeding 
and  it  knows  the  value  of  the  superimposed  training. 
It  knows  that  it  takes  more  than  one  generation  to 
turn  a  plough  horse  into  a  thoroughbred.  It 's  when 
we  come  to  theorizing  *  hat  we  get  off  our  head.  De 
mocracy  as  formulated  by  ignorant  doctrinaires  is  a 
falsehood  from  beginning  to  end.  It  starts  in  a  lie 
and  ends  in  a  riddle." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  "  asked  Mar 
garet. 

"  Well,  I  'm  going  to  stick  to  it,  for  one  thing,"  I 
365 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


answered,  "  and  I  'm  going  to  try  to  make  it  rational 
and  true,  for  another.  Democracy  needs  the  service 
of  educated,  temperate,  disinterested  men." 

"  And  women,"  adds  Margaret.  She  is  now  almost 
as  great  a  stickler  for  the  rights  of  women  as  is  my 
dear  Charlotte. 

"  And  women,  surely,"  said  I.  "  I  meant  '  man 
kind,'  when  I  said  4  men,'  and  had  no  intention  of 
omitting  the  superior  sex." 

Margaret  chooses  to  overlook  this  latitudinarian 
compliment,  and  asks  seriously,  "  Have  you  any  pro 
gramme  yet  ?  How  are  we  to  begin  ?  " 

The  officer  on  the  bridge  still  had  his  eye  on  us. 

"  No  definite  programme,  dear,  in  the  sense  of  turn 
ing  things  topsy-turvy.  Of  course  we  want  ultimately 
to  see  all  land  and  all  necessary  industries  in  the  hands 
of  the  commonwealth  ;  and  we  want  to  see  the  total 
conversion  and  disappearance  of  the  trading  class  and 
the  trading  spirit.  But  this  does  not  come  in  a  day. 
Meanwhile  we  are  not  disgruntled.  The  present  order 
of  things  is  not  entirely  bad.  What  we  shall  do  at  the 
Chateau  de  Monrepos  will  be  to  have  sweet,  human, 
helpful  relations  with  our  neighbors,  and  try  to  help 
on  the  socializing  and  humanizing  of  the  world.  We 
may  not  live  to  see  the  entire  social  programme,  even 
such  as  we  and  our  Fabian  friends  know  it,  carried 
out  in  either  America  or  England,  but  all  the  same 
we  can  be  lending  a  hand  to  those  minor  movements 
which  lead  in  the  right  direction.  That  is  what  I 
most  hope  for,  that  we  can  be  practical  helpers-on 

366 


THE   GKEAT  REPUBLIC 


of  the   better   day,  and   not  idle    on-looking   doctri 
naires." 

"  Do  you  know,  dear  John,  that  for  an  idealist  you 
are  a  very  practical  person,"  said  Margaret  mischiev 
ously. 

"  For  an  idealist"  I  cried  protestingly.  "  Do  you 
not  know  that  the  most  practical  people  in  the  world, 
in  fact,  the  only  practical  people  in  the  world,  are 
idealists.  The  whole  fight  towards  the  better  life  is 
a  fight  for  better  and  nobler  ideas  of  life.  The  ob 
stacles  are  mental,  not  brick  and  stone  and  wood  and 
metal,  but  ideas.  As  soon  as  men  want  the  better 
day,  they  can  have  it,  without  waiting  for  any  fur 
ther  inventions  of  Edison's  or  Tesla's.  You  know 
that  is  so,  Margaret.  You  are  just  trying  to  tease 
me." 

"  Nearly  so,  at  any  rate,  John.  But  I  have  been 
evolving  a  very  definite  plan  of  action  for  Monrepos. 
Shall  I  tell  it  to  you  ?  It 's  nearly  as  long  as  your 
Kentucky  stories,  though." 

"  Go  ahead,  dear  lady,"  I  make  answer,  "  I  'm 
listening  with  both  my  good  ear  and  my  game  ear." 

"  Well,  it  is  this,"  said  Margaret,  with  so  much 
energy  that  I  knew  it  was  something  more  than  a 
passing  thought  that  I  was  about  to  hear.  "  I  call  the 
plan  *  the  township  league.'  It  begins  with  the  pro 
prietor  of  Monrepos,  a  very  cultivated  and  public- 
spirited  gentleman  "  — 

"  Thanks  !  It  seems  to  me  that  it  begins  with  his 
wife." 

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JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


—  "  It  begins  at  Monrepos,"  continued  Margaret, 
"  and    gradually    adds    each    neighboring   landowner 
Until  it  takes  in  the  whole  township.     The  purpose  of 
the  league  is  to  make  the  best  out  of  the  township  and 
the  people,  to  carry  out  indeed  the  motto  of  the  Cha 
teau  de  Monrepos  for  the  whole  township.     It  begins 
with  very  practical  bread-and-butter  problems,  such  as 
what  crops  to  raise,  how  to  cultivate  the  land,  how 
best  to   dispose  of   the   produce.     Then   gradually  it 
goes  on  to  more  subtle  problems,  such  as  beautifying 
the  roads  and  commons,  looking  after  the  schools  and 
churches,  and  seeing  that  there  are  no  old  people  in 
want.     I  forgot  to  say  that  it  would  buy  the  supplies, 
the  best,  you  know,  and  the  most  artistic,  and  deal  only 
with  firms  on  the  white  list.     Indeed  there  would  be 
no  end  to  the  possible  activity  of  the  league.    It  could 
be  an  active  Providence  in  so  many  ways.     It  might 
even  provide  amusements,  get  up  township  balls,  and 
start  golf  and  riding  and  libraries,  and  have  lectures 
and  concerts.     I   have  thought,  too,   that  we  might 
have  good  plays  "  — 

"With  Mrs.  John  Percyfield,  the  Chatelaine  of 
Monrepos,  as  the  leading  star.  Bravo,  I  'm  sure  it 
would  be  a  go." 

—  "  And  then,"  continued  Margaret,  "  when  we  had 
broken    down    party  and   class  lines    sufficiently,  we 
might  take  a  hand  in  politics,  and  send  you  or  some 
less  worthy  man  to  the  legislature.    Now  tell  me  what 
you  think  of  my  programme.     Of  course  the  league 
would  include  men,  too." 

368 


THE   GKEAT  EEPUBLIC 


"  I  think  it 's  fine,  Margaret,  seriously  I  do,  just  a 
splendid  idea,"  I  said  enthusiastically.  "  I  think  we 
should  have  to  go  slowly,  especially  when  we  touched 
on  religion  and  politics.  We  might,  perhaps,  get 
some  qualified  person  to  help  us,  some  one  who  could 
advise  us  about  crops  and  markets,  and  act  as  purchas 
ing  and  selling  agent  for  the  league.  It  might  be 
possible  to  get  a  graduate  in  social  economy  from  one 
of  the  universities,  a  big-hearted  fellow,  who  would 
go  in  for  bettering  the  whole  neighborhood  and  put 
ting  some  of  his  pretty  theories  into  practice.  Keally, 
Margaret,  I  'm  enthusiastic  over  the  idea.  It  might 
be  the  means  of  lifting  the  whole  township  into  a 
higher  social  life.  When  did  you  think  of  all  this  ?  " 

Margaret  blushed  very  prettily,  and  answered  more 
demurely  than  was  her  wont.  "  I  thought  of  it,  John, 
after  our  talks  in  the  north  tower,  —  while  you  were 
deciding  whether  you  loved  me  or  not." 

"Margaret,  you  witch,  how  is  it  that  you  know 
everything  ?  "  I  had  taken  Margaret's  hands  in  mine, 
—  the  soldierly  officer  on  the  bridge  might  see  us  and 
welcome  ;  the  sight  would  do  him  good ;  —  "  how  did 
you  ever  know  that  I  was  having  such  a  desperately 
hard  time  to  let  my  little  ladylove  grow  up  ?  " 

Margaret  looked  into  my  eyes  through  those  deep, 
fathomless  brown  eyes  of  hers,  and  said  very  gently, 
"You  forget,  John,  that  I  was  loving  you  all  that 
time.  Love  makes  one  very  wise ; "  and  then  she 
added,  a  little  archly,  "  and  it  was  n't  so  very  difficult 
to  see,  either,  John." 

369 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


And  I  made  answer,  "  Sometimes,  Margaret,  I  feel 
that  I  don't  deserve  your  love,  I  was  so  slow  and 
stupid.  But  this  at  least  you  must  know,  that  how 
ever  much  you  may  love  me,  I  love  you  fully  ten  times 
as  much." 

"  It  would  be  impossible,  you  great  boy,"  said  Mar 
garet.  "  You  don't  know  yet  how  deeply  a  woman  can 
love." 

I  think  that  Margaret  is  right.  I  cannot  under 
stand  yet  how  she  came  to  love  me,  for  I  do  not  seem 
to  myself  to  be  lovable.  But  that  is  the  marvel  of  it. 
If  any  one  can  teach  me,  Margaret  can,  Margaret  and 
my  own  great  love  for  her. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  our  voyage.  The  low  Long 
Island  coast  came  slowly  above  the  horizon  as  the 
herald  of  America.  The  White  Seal  had  steamed  along 
at  such  good  speed  that  now  she  was  under  increased 
pressure,  so  that  we  might  make  New  York  that 
night.  Fire  Island  Light  was  passed  early  enough  in 
the  day  to  set  everybody  packing  up,  and  to  bring 
the  customary  apprehensiveness  to  the  stewards  about 
their  fees.  It  was  a  race  with  the  sun.  But  October 
days  are  short,  and  the  sun  beat  us.  Just  as  we  were 
steaming  into  the  Narrows,  the  sunset  gun  at  Fort 
Hamilton  proclaimed  that  the  day  was  spent,  and  we 
had  to  come  to  anchor  off  quarantine  and  wait  for  the 
morning.  We  were  not  expected  until  the  following 
day,  so  that  I  knew  the  dear  Charlotte  and  Frederic 
would  not  be  uneasy.  But  it  was  difficult  for  me  to 
keep  up  any  show  of  patience.  Margaret  and  I  went 

370 


THE   GKEAT   REPUBLIC 


up  on  the  top  deck.  As  I  looked  towards  the  city, 
and  saw  the  lights  gleaming  from  the  tall  buildings 
around  the  Battery,  I  knew  that  farther  uptown,  in 
one  of  the  many  hotels,  Charlotte  and  Frederic  were 
waiting,  and  the  thought  of  seeing  them  again  made 
my  heart  thump  riotously. 

What  a  magnificent  harbor  it  is !  I  do  not  know 
how  it  affects  foreigners,  but  at  sunset,  and  when  one 
has  been  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic  for  over  a 
year,  it  seems  the  very  most  beautiful  harbor  in  all  the 
world.  It  is  America.  It  is  home. 

Margaret  and  I  did  not  go  down  to  dinner  until 
very  late,  and  afterwards  we  hurried  back  to  our 
favorite  perch.  The  night  was  mild  and  beautiful. 
We  drank  in  great  draughts  of  the  sweet  air,  the  air 
of  this  fresh  western  world  of  hope.  The  low  Staten 
Island  hills  passed  into  the  shadow.  The  sunset  glow 
above  the  Jersey  marshes  faded  into  a  clear  yellow 
brilliance.  The  dainty  crescent  moon  shone  pale  and 
clear  against  its  luminous  background.  From  the  en 
circling  cities  came  the  twinkle  of  myriad  lights.  The 
lamps  on  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  made  a  long  flat  arch 
of  light,  spanning  the  darkness.  A  multitude  of  little 
boats,  with  their  advisory  lights  of  red  and  green, 
darted  here  and  there  across  the  waters.  The  illumi 
nated  signs  of  the  railways  on  the  Jersey  shore  gave 
the  appearance  of  permanent  bonfires.  As  the  dark 
ness  deepened  and  the  giant  buildings  of  Manhattan 
outlined  themselves  in  light,  we  seemed  to  be  looking 
at  a  city  set  upon  a  hill.  Nearer  at  hand,  the  tireless 

371 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


right  arm  of  Liberty  was  holding  her  torch  aloft  for 
all  the  world  to  see. 

It  was  a  marvelous  night,  that  home-coming  of 
ours,  and  Margaret  and  I  were  profoundly  thrilled  by 
it.  We  sat  there  in  the  starlight  until  very  late,  not 
talking,  but  only  breaking  the  silence  occasionally 
with  little  exclamations  of  wonder  and  delight. 

The  next  morning  Margaret  and  I  were  up  very 
early.  We  had  had  our  breakfast  and  were  walking 
up  and  down  the  deck.  The  inspection  at  quarantine 
was  over,  and  they  were  getting  the  ship  ready  to 
steam  up  to  the  city.  I  noticed  a  jaunty  little  yacht 
making  its  way  towards  the  White  Seal,  and  giving 
shrill  little  whistles  by  way  of  notice.  There  was  a 
great  fluttering  of  handkerchiefs  from  her  tiny  deck. 
I  felt  a  touch  of  envy  for  those  of  our  fellow  passen 
gers  who  were  to  be  so  promptly  welcomed  home. 
Margaret,  too,  was  watching  the  yacht.  She  clutched 
my  arm  eagerly  and  cried  out,  "  It 's  Charlotte.  Oh, 
John,  it  's  Charlotte,  and  that  must  be  Frederic. 
And  there  's  Peyton.  I  don't  know  the  other  peo 
ple." 

We  were  at  the  ship's  side  in  an  instant.  What  a 
shout  went  up  from  the  tiny  yacht,  and  what  a  shout 
Margaret  and  I  sent  back ! 

There  was  the  dear  Charlotte,  a  trifle  stouter  and 
more  matronly  than  when  I  left  her  sixteen  months 
before,  but  looking  just  as  sweet  and  pretty  as  ever. 
There  was  Frederic,  as  proud  and  handsome  as  a 
young  father  could  be,  and  near  at  hand,  somewhat 

372 


THE   GREAT  REPUBLIC 


frightened  by  all  the  uproar,  was  a  very  small  person 
in  the  hands  of  a  large  and  consequential  black  nurse. 
I  had  never  seen  this  small  person  before,  but  I  knew, 
of  course,  that  it  must  be  my  morsel  of  a  nephew. 
Near  them  stood  Peyton.  The  throb  in  my  heart 
told  me  that  he  was  still  my  little  brother,  my  Endy- 
mion.  At  his  side,  and  already  friendly,  was  the  dear 
musician,  the  two  men  whom  I  love  the  best  in  all  the 
world.  But  the  most  unexpected  of  all  was  my  aunt 
Percyfield,  so  little  severe  and  such  glad  affection  in 
her  face  that  I  could  scarce  believe  my  eyes.  She 
and  the  very  small  person  seemed  to  be  on  very  good 
terms  with  each  other.  I  looked  from  one  face  to  the 
other,  quite  beside  myself  with  joy.  We  left  Aunt 
Viney  on  board  to  look  after  our  luggage  until  I 
should  join  her  at  the  pier.  Our  good  friend  the 
captain  had  a  convenient  stairway  let  down  at  the 
side  of  the  ship,  and  so  Margaret  and  I  passed  from 
the  White  Seal  into  the  arms  of  the  best  and  dearest 
relatives  that  ever  a  man  had.  There  was  little  cere 
mony,  I  assure  you.  In  my  delight  at  seeing  Char 
lotte  and  Peyton  and  the  others,  I  almost  forgot  the 
baby.  As  a  rule  I  don't  like  babies.  They  are  ugly, 
squirming  little  things.  But  it  does  make  a  difference 
when  they  are  in  the  family.  This  one  looked  so 
comically  like  the  dear  Charlotte,  that  quite  unbidden, 
I  kissed  the  morsel  on  some  part  of  its  tiny  face,  and 
ultimately  made  quite  as  much  fuss  over  it  as  an  uncle 
is  expected  to. 

How  good  it  was  to  be  with  all  my  people  again,  to 
373 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


have  Frederic  give  me  his  sturdy,  cordial  handshake, 
even  to  have  my  aunt  Percyfield  press  her  birdlike 
kiss  against  my  cheek.  And  Charlotte,  bless  her,  put 
her  arms  around  Margaret  and  me  at  the  same  time, 
and  made  our  eyes  fill  with  tears  at  the  warmth  of  her 
love  and  her  welcome.  It  was  good  to  see  Margaret 
and  Charlotte  together,  and  to  have  Charlotte  call  me 
"  Kin  "  once  more.  At  last  I  got  around  to  the  other 
gentles,  to  Peyton  and  the  musician,  and  it  was  al 
most  as  good  to  see  them  together  as  it  was  to  see 
Margaret  and  Charlotte,  for  they  are  my  two  best 
friends,  my  friend  of  the  South,  and  my  friend  of  the 
North.  Peyton  is  tall  and  beautiful  and  distinguished- 
looking.  He  must  be  twenty-six  now,  but  he  is  still  a 
beautiful  boy.  He  has  the  same  heavenly  blue  eyes 
that  he  used  to  have,  and  when  I  looked  into  them,  I 
did  what  I  always  knew  I  should  do,  I  put  my  arms 
around  him  and  called  him  "  Little  brother,"  and  I 
kissed  him  on  both  cheeks,  the  way  the  burly  Ger 
mans  do.  It  was  so  good  of  Peyton.  He  remained 
North  after  the  Beauregards  had  left  their  cottage  at 
York  Harbor,  just  so  that  he  might  welcome  Mar 
garet  and  me  back  to  America.  The  musician  is  a 
shy,  reserved  fellow,  but  we  understand  each  other. 
When  I  pressed  his  hand  and  called  him  "  Old  fellow," 
it  was  as  good  as  a  caress.  The  musician  and  I  have 
been  friends  so  long  that  I  cannot  remember  a  time 
when  I  did  not  know  him.  And  in  all  these  years  we 
have  never  had  a  quarrel,  that  is,  never  but  once,  and 
then  the  quarrel  was  characteristic.  It  was  about  the 

374 


THE   GREAT   REPUBLIC 


value  of  one  to  the  infinite  power.  One  maintained 
that  it  was  indeterminate  and  the  other  that  it  was 
unity.  But  in  this  matter  the  musician  was  all  wrong, 
though  he  is  a  far  better  mathematician  than  I  am. 
He  agrees  with  me,  however,  about  almost  everything 
else,  even  about  my  wonderful  six-string  piano.  The 
ordinary  instrument,  you  remember,  has  three  strings 
for  each  note  above  the  bass,  and  the  three  strings  are 
tuned  in  unison.  But  in  my  remarkable  piano  there 
are  six  strings  for  each  note,  three  of  the  strings 
being  in  unison  to  represent  the  fundamental,  and  the 
other  strings  sounding  the  three  harmonics,  that  is, 
the  first  octave,  the  succeeding  fifth,  and  the  second 
octave.  I  devised  this  scheme  of  enriching  the  notes 
so  that  my  piano  might  have  more  of  that  human, 
touching  quality  that  so  delights  one  in  the  notes  of 
the  violin.  You  may  recall  that  I  have  had  to  defer 
my  violin-playing  until  my  next  incarnation,  for  I 
don't  believe  that  the  psychic  power  of  Mademoiselle 
Werner  and  the  faithful  drill  of  Madame  Martigny 
and  the  perseveringness  of  Mr.  John  Percyfield,  all 
combined,  could  teach  a  man,  now  almost  thirty,  to 
play  the  violin.  I  shall  have  to  go  in  for  it  when  I  am 
younger.  If  you  are  at  all  curious  about  my  piano, 
you  can  get  the  effect  of  a  single  note  by  striking  the 
middle  C  on  your  own,  rather  firmly,  with  your  left 
hand,  and  at  the  same  instant,  but  more  gently,  the 
next  C  and  G  and  second  C  above  the  middle  note 
with  your  right  hand.  You  will  get  a  richness  of  tone 
quite  in  excess  of  the  ordinary  naked  note. 

375 


JOHN  PERCYFIELD 


So  I  floated  up  to  New  York  on  a  greater  flood  than 
ever  swept  through  Gedney's  Channel,  on  the  flood 
of  emotion  that  overwhelms  a  man  when  he  comes 
back  to  his  own  country  and  his  own  people. 

When  we  got  up  to  the  city,  I  had  first  to  extricate 
Aunt  Viney  from  the  White  Seal  and  pack  her  off 
to  Philadelphia.  Then  I  had  to  get  our  luggage 
through  the  custom-house,  a  process  which  is  ordina 
rily  rather  vexatious  to  the  spirit  of  an  out  and-out 
free-trader  like  myself,  and  must  be  somewhat  humiliat 
ing  to  those  protectionists  who  descend  to  lying  when 
the  principle  is  applied  to  their  own  small  purchases. 
But  yesterday  nothing  short  of  a  personal  mishap  to 
Margaret  or  to  the  dear  people  I  had  just  regained 
could  have  touched  my  high  spirits.  They  seemed  to 
be  contagious,  too,  for  the  inspector  was  less  imperti 
nent  than  his  office  sometimes  makes  him.  After 
that,  we  all  had  luncheon  together  at  the  Brevoort 
House,  an  old-fashioned  place,  but  quite  sacred  to  us 
because  my  grandfather  Percyfield  used  to  stop  there. 
In  the  afternoon  we  came  over  to  Philadelphia,  and 
the  two-hour  ride  in  the  comfortable  parlor  car  that 
got  into  motion  at  Jersey  City  and  only  came  to  rest 
in  Broad  Street  Station  was  such  a  delight  that  it 
seemed  to  be  just  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  At  the 
station,  all  too  soon,  there  was  a  general  scattering. 
Peyton  had  to  leave  us  to  take  his  express  train  for 
New  Orleans.  It  grieved  me  to  say  good-by,  after 
such  a  short  glimpse  of  this  best  of  friends,  but  Pey 
ton  promised  to  visit  us  as  soon  as  ever  Monrepos  was 

376 


THE   GREAT   REPUBLIC 


ready  for  its  house-warming,  and  also  to  see  much  of 
us  when  Margaret  and  I  went  to  New  Orleans  later 
in  the  winter.  The  musician  took  his  train  out  to 
Chestnut  Hill,  but  he  promised  to  spend  next  Sunday 
with  us.  Otherwise,  I  think  I  should  have  detained 
him  by  main  force. 

Then  the  rest  of  us  all  came  out  to  Uplands.  It 
was  quite  dark  when  we  reached  Green  Tree  Station, 
and  I  could  not  show  Margaret  anything  of  the  Ches 
ter  Valley  or  of  our  lovely  Pennsylvania  fields  and 
woodlands.  Pompey  was  at  the  station  with  the  old 
yellow-bellied  coach  that  has  been  in  use  as  long  as  I 
can  remember,  and  both  of  its  lamps  were  ablaze  with 
importance.  It  was  a  part  of  the  Percyfield  formality 
that  Margaret  should  ride  in  the  family  coach.  My 
aunt  Percyfield  and  I  rode  with  her,  while  the  more 
accustomed  members  of  the  family  had  to  put  up  with 
the  lumbering  hack  which  had  been  bespoken  at  the 
livery.  A  cart  full  of  luggage  completed  the  proces 
sion.  This  was  only  last  night,  but  it  seems  a  week, 
even  a  month  ago,  for  when  you  first  come  home  time 
seems  to  loiter  in  order  that  you  may  crowd  into  it  all  the 
new  and  delightful  impressions  which  constitute  the 
joy  of  coming  home.  Or  is  it  that  time  has  no  fixed 
content  and  is  measured  only  by  what  you  put  into  it. 
After  our  Bohemian  life  in  Europe,  Margaret  and  I 
were  curiously  conscious  of  the  old-time  atmosphere 
about  my  aunt  Percyfield  and  the  provincial  formality 
of  our  first  hours  at  Uplands.  We  liked  the  flavor  of 
it,  but  we  had  to  get  used  to  it.  Although  it  was  too 

377 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


dark  for  me  to  show  Margaret  our  part  of  Pennsyl 
vania,  there  was  no  such  hindrance  when  we  came  to 
Uplands.  The  house  was  ablaze  with  light  from  the 
front  door  to  the  garret.  Flowers  were  everywhere. 
The  best  of  the  family  silver  and  china  adorned  the 
dinner  table.  Uplands  was  at  its  bravest.  It  was 
the  Percyfield  welcome  to  a  beloved  bride. 

Margaret  and  I  had  not  expected  this,  and  we  were 
much  touched  by  it,  though  I  thought  at  once  that  I 
might  have  known  that  Charlotte  would  have  it  so. 
But  when  I  asked  Charlotte  about  it,  she  said  that  it 
was  all  my  aunt  Percyfield's  doing  and  that  she  her 
self  was  as  much  surprised  and  gratified  as  we  were. 
There  was  indeed  an  air  of  suppressed  excitement 
about  my  aunt  Percyfield  that  quite  baffled  me.  I 
had  never  known  her  to  be  so  affectionate.  Though 
she  had  never  seen  Margaret  before,  she  quite  vied 
with  Charlotte  in  trying  to  make  my  dear  bride  feel 
entirely  at  home. 

The  dinner  was  a  delicious  affair.  For  democrats 
we  had  what  might  have  seemed  to  our  Fabian  friends 
an  undue  amount  of  service,  but  it  would  have  been 
simple  cruelty  to  have  kept  either  Pompey  or  Susan 
or  Aunt  Viney  out  of  the  dining-room.  They  shared 
the  Percyfield  joy.  When  at  last  the  dinner  was  over, 
and  these  faithful  old  servants  of  ours  had  been  for 
cibly  driven  out  of  the  room  by  a  touch  of  my  aunt 
Percyfield's  old-time  severity,  the  cause  of  her  own  ex 
citement  was  gently  and  modestly  disclosed  to  us.  It 
was  a  great  thing  that  my  aunt  Percyfield  did  last 

378 


THE   GKEAT   REPUBLIC 


night,  a  very  great  kindness,  and  quite  worthy  of  the 
blood  which  made  my  grandfather  Percyfield  the  most 
courteous  and  generous  of  men,  —  my  old  kinswoman 
has  given  Uplands  to  Margaret  and  to  me,  and  she 
brought  us  out  here  not  as  her  guests,  but  to  our  own 
home. 

I  have  been  in  possession  for  a  day,  but  still  I 
hardly  realize  the  truth  of  it  all.  This  dear  old  place, 
where  I  was  born,  where  I  have  always  lived,  which 
is  sacred  to  me  through  a  thousand  memories  of  my 
mother  and  my  grandfather  Percyfield,  is  our  very 
own,  Margaret's  and  mine.  It  is  to  be  the  home  of 
my  manhood,  the  home  where  Margaret  and  I  are  to 
work  out  the  problem  of  our  individual  and  social  life, 
the  home  where  our  children  are  to  be  born  and  nur 
tured.  It  seemed  too  great  a  gift.  I  hesitated  to 
accept  it.  But  Charlotte,  too,  and  Frederic,  both  wish 
it.  They  must  needs  spend  the  greater  part  of  the 
year  in  town,  as  Frederic's  profession  demands  it.  So 
they  joined  my  aunt  Percyfield  in  overcoming  all  my 
scruples.  They  tell  me  that  a  John  Percyfield  has 
always  been  master  at  Uplands,  and  that  so  honorable 
a  tradition  must  not  be  set  aside.  And  much  else 
these  dear,  unselfish  people  tell  me  to  reconcile  me  to 
this  great  happiness.  My  aunt  Percyfield  simply  de 
clines  to  hear  of  anything  else.  She  says  that  Mon- 
repos  is  an  outlandish  name,  and  that  Hereford  Hall 
and  Marston  Manor  are  not  much  better.  She  had 
given  me  small  chance  to  refuse,  for  she  took  the  pre 
caution  to  buy  herself  a  small  house  over  near  St. 

379 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


Davids,  and  her  modest  establishment  is  already  under 
way.  She  says  that  Uplands  is  too  large  a  place  for 
an  old  woman  to  keep  up  properly  and  that  she  will 
be  much  happier  to  see  Margaret  and  me  here,  and 
our  children,  and  that  already  she  is  much  attached  to 
her  little  place  over  at  St.  Davids.  But  in  spite  of  all 
this  brave  show,  I  know  that  it  has  cost  my  aunt  Percy- 
field  something  dear  to  give  up  Uplands. 

When  I  had  a  chance,  I  asked  Charlotte  privately 
what  had  come  over  my  aunt  Percyfield,  if  she  is  ill 
and  likely  to  die,  for  my  aunt  Percyfield  was  formerly 
a  severe  and  not  altogether  agreeable  old  gentlewoman, 
and  I  cannot  understand  the  change.  Charlotte  an 
swered  gravely  that  it  was  the  baby  who  had  brought 
about  the  change,  and  that  my  aunt  Percyfield  had 
been  quite  a  different  woman  since  the  baby  came  and 
much  more  like  my  grandfather  Percyfield.  I  guess 
Charlotte  saw  the  twinkle  in  my  eye  at  this  astound 
ing  piece  of  information,  for  she  added  almost  re 
proachfully,  "  Other  people  say  the  same  thing, 
John." 

The  conceit  of  these  young  mothers  passes  all  be 
lief.  But  it  was  too  good  to  be  with  Charlotte  again 
to  do  any  immediate  teasing,  and  very  naturally  we 
spoke  of  Margaret ;  this  is  a  perfectly  safe  subject,  for 
one  cannot  fall  into  the  superlative.  Charlotte  was 
enthusiastic  enough  to  satisfy  even  me.  She  put  her 
arms  around  me  and  said,  "Kin  dear,  what  a  lovely 
sister  you  have  brought  us.  I  shall  love  Margaret 
almost  as  much  as  I  love  you,  you  dear  old  fellow.  I 
380 


THE   GREAT   REPUBLIC 


wish  that  mother  and  grandfather  Percyfield  could 
know."  I  resolved  then  and  there  to  praise  the  baby 
as  much  as  I  honestly  could.  Charlotte  is  just  the 
dearest  sister  in  the  world.  Just  then  a  feeble  wail 
reached  our  ears.  Charlotte  was  off  in  a  flash  to  look 
after  her  small  son,  and  I  went  to  seek  my  aunt  Per 
cyfield  and  to  try  to  tell  her  what  was  in  my  heart. 

This  morning,  Charlotte  and  Frederic  and  the  small 
boy  and  the  large  nurse  all  went  into  town,  and  my 
aunt  Percyfield  drove  back  to  St.  Davids.  They  have 
all  promised  to  come  for  dinner  on  Sunday,  the  small 
boy  giving  his  assent  by  a  gurgling  noise  intelligible 
only  to  the  devoted  Charlotte. 

And  Margaret  and  I  are  alone  at  Uplands.  We 
have  not  even  had  our  trunks  unpacked.  We  have 
done  nothing  that  sober-minded  householders  ought 
to  do.  We  have  been  two  children  again,  and  have 
spent  the  time  wandering  over  this  dear  old  home  of 
my  ancestors,  this  still  dearer  home  of  Margaret's  and 
mine.  It  has  been  a  perfect  October  day.  The  Ches 
ter  Valley  is  more  beautiful  even  than  I  remembered 
it.  It  has  the  glory  of  the  autumn  upon  it,  and  brood 
ing  over  all  the  fields  and  woods  and  farmhouses 
there  is  the  full  richness  and  peace  of  accomplished 
work.  Margaret  and  I  have  been  into  every  field  in 
our  large  domain  and  have  loitered  along  the  paths  in 
the  chestnut  woods  that  I  know  so  well.  We  have 
followed  the  little  stream  to  its  source  high  on  the 
hill,  the  little  stream  that  gives  us  such  a  plentiful 
supply  of  good  soft  water  at  the  Uplands  manor-house 

381 


JOHN   PERCYFIELD 


and  barns.  We  have  explored  the  garden  together, 
and  have  visited  all  the  animals.  Indoors,  we  have 
been  into  every  room  and  cupboard  in  the  house.  We 
have  watched  the  sunset  from  the  western  porch. 
And  now  it  is  the  gloaming,  and  our  first  day  at  home 
in  America  is  spent. 

Pompey  has  made  us  a  generous  fire  in  the  large 
living-hall.  Margaret  and  I  are  sitting  before  the  fire 
on  the  old  settle  where  my  mother  used  to  tell  me 
stories  of  angels  and  knights.  Margaret  rests  her 
head  against  my  shoulder,  and  the  sweet-smelling 
chestnut  hair  brushes  against  my  face.  In  my  arms, 
I  have  the  angel  and  at  her  side  I  mean  that  there 
shall  always  be  the  knight.  Margaret  puts  her  arms 
around  me,  and  clings  to  me  with  that  yearning  ten 
derness  which  always  makes  my  heart  so  full.  Then 
she  whispers  to  me,  "  John,  how  good  God  has  been 
to  us." 


382 


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